Long-lost
28 Dec 2018Today’s prompt: “The long-lost roommate”
Gideon disappeared a year and four months ago, leaving you all in the lurch. His share of the rent unpaid. His room full of his belongings. You weren’t sure how long to hold on to them. Amy suggested chucking his stuff after three weeks. Brad tried to convince you all that he’d be back, even though he’d never been gone more than two days at a time. It’s not like you hadn’t been worried. Of course you were worried. You speculated where he could be. You fielded calls from his parents when he didn’t call after months, didn’t even show up at Thanksgiving or Christmas. At first you joked that he was dead, then seriously thought he’d been in an accident. You called around to the local hospitals after the third day. Nothing. Eventually, you had to get pragmatic. After two and a half months, you split his Corn Nut stash three ways and gave all his jeans, sweatshirts and Warhammer minis to the Salvation Army. Brad’s new girlfriend moved in a couple months later, and that was that.
Until Gideon showed up again, his hair long and matted, his eyes yellowed and sunken, tattoos you’d never seen before covering his face. He was wearing the same clothes you last saw him in, a Pantera shirt and dark, shredded jeans, all the worse for wear. Cuffs were frayed, seams were ripped, and you could smell the clothes from feet away.
“Gideon,” you say, holding the apartment door open. “How are you? Where were you?”
“Eyes have not seen,” Gideon says, “nor ears heard.”
“What the fuck, man?” Brad says. “We were worried about you.”
“Eyes have not seen,” Gideon says, “nor ears heard.”
“Gideon, you’re freaking us out,” Amy says. “What’s wrong? Say something else, for fuck’s sake.”
Gideon steps over the threshhold.
“Eyes have not seen.”
You back up. He steps forward again.
“Nor ears heard.”
His right hand is busy with something at his waist. You look down. It’s a Leatherman. He keeps flicking the blade open and closed.
“Eyes have not seen.”
Flick.
“Nor ears heard.”
Flick.
“Gideon,” you laugh, a forced, nervous laugh in a register so high it surprises you, “we thought maybe you’d joined a cult or something.”
“Eyes have not seen.”
Flick.
You back up a step.
“Gideon, stop it,” Amy says.
“Nor ears. Heard.”
The last thing you see is Gideon’s Leatherman lunging toward your left eye.