Pewdie n' Friends

Reading in
an armchair in her cozy living room, Debbie Shrikes was perfectly content. A
beautiful lightning storm had almost blown itself out. The lamp on the table
next to the chair was set to a low intensity, just enough light to read by. She
held her long auburn hair out of her face with one hand. She set her romance
novel aside just long enough to stand up and light the fireplace across from
her chair then went back to the book. A blush crept across her girlish features
as she read, and she chuckled a bit. She looked very happy. She had lived in
her house alone for a little over a month, and seemed to love the place. It was
beginning to feel like home.


There was a clattering on the front
porch that interrupted Debbie from her book for a moment. Thinking it was just
the wind blowing stray objects about, she dismissed the sound. Until she heard
her front door creak open. Since she lived alone, she did not see any reason
for anybody to be letting themselves in. Setting the novel aside a second time,
she rose from her chair and stood still in the living room, listening. It was
silent for a moment. Then she heard footsteps, heavy, as if the intruder were
wearing work boots. The front door slammed shut again.


Hyperventilating, but being as silent
as she could, Debbie crept over to the wall, pressing herself against it and
attempting to regain control of her breathing. Once she was sure she was
breathing normally again, she took a few cautious steps toward the front door.
In order to get to the door, she would have to go through the kitchen. There
were plenty of objects with which she could arm herself in the kitchen. She
flicked on the light as she entered the kitchen. Nearest the living room, on the counter, was
an old rusty fork that she had been planning to throw out but had not gotten
around to it just yet. She picked up the object. It would most likely do the
intruder a good deal of damage if need be.


Armed with the fork, still walking
cautiously, Debbie continued toward the door. Before she could get to the door,
however, a shadowy man in plain blue jeans, work boots as she had expected, and
a black tee-shirt stepped casually in front of her. He was at least a head
taller than her, and had a well-built frame. He looked her up and down, as if
he were a predator analyzing his prey. His blank expression turned to a twisted
smirk as he noticed the fork in the woman’s hand. She swallowed her fear,
intending to speak, but it only came out as a pitiful whimper. The man
chuckled. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her against the door that
she had originally intended to reach. The force of the man pressing her against
the door summoned another whimper from Debbie.


The man lowered his face to her ear.
“Resisting won’t do no good, pretty. Don’t do that screaming shit either, no
one can hear you.” His tone was barely above a whisper. His words made the
woman shiver. He’s going to rape me,
she thought, he’s going to rape me, and
kill me, and brag to his friends about it at the bar later. Her face was
distorted in terror. Then she remembered that she had a weapon, she could
defend herself.


Running one of his hands down
Debbie’s side, finding the bottom hem of her shirt, the man began to roughly
attempt to undress his victim. He moved his other hand from her shoulder to
start removing his own attire as well. The terrified woman used that moment to
act. When her arms were both free, she wielded the rusty fork with both hands,
driving it into the man’s chest. He yelled out in anger and pain. The attack
did little more than break the skin. Before the man could advance on her again,
Debbie thrust the fork in a downward motion, burying it in the man’s shoulder,
then pulled the weapon back out with some difficulty. The man slapped her
across the face. Now furious, using her terror and anger as fuel, she stabbed
the man again and again, in every place she could get to, until the man was
lying in a pool of his own blood, unmoving.


She stabbed him once more to be sure
he was not getting back up. When she was sure the man was dead, Debbie dropped
the rusty fork, slumped onto the floor against the door, her head in her hands.
She did not want to call the police, but she really had few other options. So
she stood up on shaky legs, and stumbled over to the phone on the wall in the
kitchen. She dialed 911, explained that there was a dead man in her entryway,
then hung up the phone and waited for the police. When the cops showed up, they
had little questioning for Debbie. She was charged for first-degree murder and put
behind bars. She did not regret killing the man. Her act saved her life, and
she was just happy to be on Earth and not six feet underground in a cold dark
hole. She was happy.