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Michael's Secret Admirer, Fiona's Hopeful Killer, Part One...
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Michael’s Secret Admirer,
Fiona’s hopeful killer… Part one: “Fi?” I called her. To my surprise, I heard her former accent peaking through. I turned to see her finishing a pepper grenade and putting aside a few blocks of C-4. “You know, Michael… I get that you want back in… but I’m still to see a legitimate reason as to why you want back in. You’ve got everything you need here… your family, hate to say it, but Sam makes a good friend… and, maybe, one day… I could make a good wi---” I dropped my strawberry-banana yogurt, hearing her voice tickle the sound for an “F” as Sam opened the door, and was yapping about something. Fiona… a wife… Oh my God. “Michael… hello? Did you hear me?” I snapped back to reality, gripping my awareness which was lost in a way that hadn’t been lost since I was engaged to Sam. I heard the refrigerator slam shut, and Sam continue talking. “You’re out of beer,” he says, a sigh in his voice, “Michael. You in there?” He said, waving his unopened beer in front of my face. Shocking him, I gripped his hand. “Yeah. Sorry, what were you saying?” I said, refocusing on him. I could see Fiona lifting herself off of my counter, and gathering the different explosives. “I’m going to wait in the car, while Sam, once again, explains himself to you,” she sighed, grinding her teeth. “Fiona, wait---” I say, reaching out for her. She turned to face me, and looked me up and down. “For what do I have to wait for?” She nearly spat at me, before walking down the stairs. Sam whistled, as the door shut itself behind her. “She’s gotten her accent back, eh? What the hell went on here? Looks like Fi had a party and left the mess for you to clean up!” He chuckled, his stubble wet with sweat beads and beer. “Nothing, Sam, you know Fi. What’s the job, again?” I asked. He looked at me for a second before answering, apprehensively. He’s holding something back. “I promised I wouldn’t tell you; your mom wants you,” he trailed off, starting to the door. I blocked him at the top of the stairs. “I’ve got no time, Sam, for another one of her payless, so-called jobs. If one of her friends is in another scam or something, I can’t help this time, Sam.” “It’s not necessarily a job. And you’ll want to know.” He frowned at me. “Sam… tell me, or I’m not going.” I sternly asserted him, knowing he’d admit to me what’s going on. “If I tell you, you will freak out. Just come on.” “Is she okay?” I asked him. He didn’t answer, but kept walking. “Sam! Is my mom hurt?” “Not your mom. Nate’s in the hospital. He was shot twice to the chest. It was a trained shoot, Michael; trained to miss everything but look clean. But seem, and can be, fatal. He had an envelope addressed to you in his pocket. It was a fat gold post-office envelope.” My mind, though supposedly trained and accustomed to handle news like this, was whirling. I must’ve broken a mirror or walked under a ladder, or something. I looked at him. My face fell. I had a déjà vu from seconds ago when my yogurt fell. Every exact splat of pink on the dirty floor. “Michael… you okay?” He asked. Something wasn’t right, I can feel it. “Yeah, Sam. Don’t bother going to mom’s. I need to get the envelope from Nate.” “Your mom has it.” He replied. “Well, did she open it?” * * * “I don’t know what’s in the envelope, Michael, so could you open the damned thing so you can save Nate?!” She shrieked. She was not in the best mood. I began, cautiously at the peal. It was very light, and I doubted it would be a bomb. If he wanted me dead, I highly doubt he would’ve gone after Nate. Unless it was all of us he wanted dead? It was all bubble wrap, but underneath, I could see some paper. I undid all of the bubble wrap, and took out the paper. It was a napkin, and scrawled on, with crayon or eyeliner. Yet, the script was very readable, and feminine. “Cremation for red Drown victims for blue I feel about as much compassion for my death As I do for you You better watch out You better not die You better not pout I can’t tell you why Mrs. Westin is coming to town… Mrs. Westin had a little gun Little gun Little gun Mrs. Westin had a little gun And it’s bullets go right through These remixes are written just for you, honey. Nate was first, Fiona’s next. Then we can finally be together. Like I’ve always hoped for. That was when I knew, my priority was Fiona. “What is it, Michael?” Fiona asked, peaking over my shoulder. I crushed it shut. “Fiona, stay here with mom and Sam. I’m going down to talk to Nate. I’ll be back in a little while.” I ignored there questions and echoing footsteps, and finally made it out the door alone. |
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