She’s never seen ‘Psycho’.
Never liked horror films; they gave her nightmares that lasted months.
But "The Horror Marathon" was on TV and Michael thought they’d make a night of it: ‘Psycho’; a bowl of parmesan popcorn with bottles of Red Rock ginger ale (the only soda she drank); and later, with adrenaline in their veins, wild lovemaking.
Steffie has never seen the film, but knew about the infamous shower scene.
Aaaand here it comes…
Why is the bathroom the murderers’ favorite milieu for killing people in their homes?
Ugh, really gross. Grrr-ross…
The things you do when you like a man....
Thank God that's done...
“And with that, I am going to the bathroom,” Steffie said, slapping away Michael’s hand as he groped her thigh. “Stop that, you beast…”
Michael howled; Steffie kept her smile as she walked to the bathroom.
They’ve been going out for almost a month.
She really liked him; he really liked her.
Last week Michael asked her to move in with him; she was hesitant and wanted to take things slower. They’ve only gone out a few times, and, though she enjoyed his company, she hardly knew him. She has a long list of deal-breakers; she wanted to make sure he's got none of the items. As a compromise, she suggested they spend the whole weekend together: if they haven’t killed each other by Monday morning, she will consider a more permanent arrangement.
But he wanted to watch ‘Psycho’; not a good start, she teased him.
Steffie looked at her face in the mirror and wiped off the lipstick smudge his kiss made earlier. Then she lifted the toilet cover and screamed.
The sound she made was loud and terror-filled; imagination fired up by Hitchcock, Michael rushed to the bathroom.
“Steffie! Steffie!”
When Michael got there, Steffie had her back pressed against the bathroom wall, grimacing at the sight in front of her; arms frozen against her bosom, protecting herself from repulsive horror.
“What the fuck is that?” She screamed.
Michael’s eyes followed her line of sight.
He shrieked in horror.
“Oh, shit! I’m so sorry!” He pressed on the knob and flushed the floating excrement in the bowl.
“Shit indeed! What the fuck!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I don’t normally forget to flush!” Michael said as Steffie turned to leave. He trailed after her like a contrite canine.
She grabbed her bag and pushed him away in disgust.
“Gross,” she hissed, utterly sickened. “Don’t call me!”
After she left, Michael flopped on the sofa, the movie nearing its end. He glowered at the unfolding story, shoulders slumped and face forlorn.
“Why did you do that?” He asked the lady that stood silently beside him; his eyes dejectedly staring at the screen.
“She’s not for you,” the lady said, her voice oddly-pitched, high and screechy. “She’s too finicky. See how she reacted to that? Do you think she’ll be able to bear your ways?”
Michael shook his head and frowned.
“That’s right,” the lady patted his pate. “You need a woman who will take you for who you are – good and bad. Not some prissy little miss who gets her panty all in a knot because of some turd in the toilet.”
Michael nodded and smiled weakly. He looked up at her, lovingly.
“I guess it’s still just you and me, Mother.”
“Just you and me,” his mother said. “Now, scoot over and let me have some popcorn.”
Michael moved and made some space; he grabbed a handful of popcorn, some falling on himself and on to the floor. He didn’t care; Mother was fine with his mess. He moved the bowl towards her direction.
But no one took popcorn.
No one sat beside him.
There was no mother.
Michael was alone.
(July 9, 2015, For Bronne, originally, to make him laugh. But, as always, the story ended not quite as I hoped. I used the Friday Frights group's July theme as my title. I was only able to make one entry then, feeling somewhat too uninspired by water. You could say that this "Terror in the Water" is a product of delayed inspiration. Sometimes the muse likes to take her time.)