Watching Her Chapter 7 - Penny

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Chapter 7 - Penny - The Rescuers
Penny is a timid child, but is gutsy and very brave.
BPOV 

The house is nearly silent.

There's the soft whir of the ceiling fan overhead, the sound of the wind outside rustling the branches of the trees that shroud the house on all sides but one. A floorboard creaks, a door opens, but there's not a voice to be heard. Anywhere.

I'm used to the silence; after this long I'm not sure I'd know what to do with myself if there was a constant hum of talking … of living, in the house. Words are spoken here, but only when necessary. Clinical and precise, most of the time anyway. There are times they're laced with concern and compassion … probably pity, too, though I try to ignore those.

I have no idea what I'll do when school starts in a few months, when I have to interact with people on a daily basis. Do I even remember how? I wonder, not without a little bitterness at the underlying truth. I mean, of course I know how to talk to people, I'm just … out of practice.

My skin itches, tight, like it's the wrong size for my body. It's always this way as I watch the minutes count down until two o'clock. If you asked me a hundred times, I couldn't tell you what the significance of the hour means. It's not the witching hour or anything like that; it just seemed like the best time to flee from the claustrophobia of the house the first night, then it just became a routine.

It's not like anyone will tell me not to go outside or that it's too late or that I should be in bed. I huff, the self-pitying thoughts scattering like the seeds of a dandelion as I let my mind concentrate on the song that's been in my head all day. Cursing my rotten luck and my splintered drumstick, I think about what I'll do tonight instead. Reading perhaps … or I could dance but I don't really feel like it. Maybe I'll pull the cover off my baby, a 1954 Buick Wildcat II, and do some work on her for a bit.

It doesn't matter what I do out there, not really. Of course I love playing, I need to play, but it's the escape that matters more than anything. It's the freedom from the monotony, of the endless waiting … always waiting.
Limbo … it's the constant state I live in.

The last few minutes finally pass, the countdown to my escape as torturous as it is every night. I can't be early. I can't be late. Why I have no idea, I just … can't. Maybe it's because my life's in one constant state of hurry up and wait, and this, this small aspect, is my way of taking control of one damn thing.

I slip into my flip-flops and quietly walk down the hall, the normal slap slap absorbed by the plush carpeting. I pass a door, stopping long enough to lay my hand on the wood, and look down at the white-blue ribbon of light that peeks from beneath. There's no sound inside, save for the steady, unchanging, pfffft whoosh pfffft whoosh. I've become so accustomed to the sound that it barely registers anymore. I wait a moment, then another, before I turn and go outside.

The first inhale of night air always hits me the hardest. I suppose that comes from being cooped up inside almost all day, every day. I don't linger tonight, though, the urge to get to my special place is more pronounced than normal.

I take one step inside and the sense that someone's been here is so strong it makes me sway for a moment. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and a chill walks up my spine. I look toward the bookshelf, my eyes scanning over the titles I know by heart. A few more steps, and that same feeling of unease grows.
Turning my head just a bit I see something strange, something so out of place it makes me freeze as if I've been turned to stone by Medusa herself. On the stool behind my drums there's a pair of drumsticks, ones which are definitely not mine, on top of a notebook which is, but which I most assuredly did not leave there.

What the hell? 

I take another step and can see writing covering the page of the notebook. Oh, God, someone's been here, I think, anger and terror fighting for the more dominant emotion. Why the hell would someone come inside and leave a letter and a set of drumsticks? 

One more step, and my head whips around, almost in a full circle searching for something, anything, that would give me an answer to the questions flying through my mind. Another shuffling slide of my feet along the floor and I'm closer still. I'm breathing so fast, so hard, that my vision blurs just the tiniest bit. I flick my tongue out, wetting my suddenly parched lips. My whole body shakes, fear and adrenaline seeps from every pore. Closer, closer I move until I'm standing right next to the stool.

With a hand that trembles so hard it looks like I suffer from Parkinson's disease, I reach out and pick up the drumsticks, gripping them so tightly in my hand my fingers turn white. I hold the notebook in my other hand, reading words but not comprehending them. I read once, then again, this time the words making sense … but not.

Drummer Girl … last night … afraid … won't hurt you … My mind plucks out words, each one more ominous somehow than the one before. Like I've been shocked, I loosen my hands.

Oh, God.

I turn around quickly, my hair swinging. I can feel the rush of air from moving so fast. I stare out into the night, wondering, knowing that whoever the freak is, he's probably out there right now, watching me, probably through binoculars, leering, panting doing God knows what to himself.

Perverted fucker.

It's enough to make me sick to my stomach. Frantically, I bolt forward, reaching for the automatic door button. I press it once, twice, over and over until I hear the groan of the motor as the doors begin to lower. I narrow my eyes, trying to see, to catch even a glimpse of whoever is out there.

Once the doors are firmly closed I collapse on the loveseat. My whole body shakes and sweat pours down my chest, little rivulets slipping between my breasts. The sound of my breathing is loud. God, it's so loud. I lean over, my stomach turning somersault after somersault. When it settles enough to let me know I'm not about to see the late night snack of sugar cookies and milk I had just an hour before, I scoot back into the corner and pull my knees up under my chin. I wrap my arms around my legs and concentrate on breathing in and out, until it no longer feels like I'm going to hyperventilate.

I rest my forehead against my knees and close my eyes. There's not a sound and it's spooky, menacing almost in its stillness.

"What the hell is going on?" I murmur, the sound of my own voice strange in my mind.

I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the drumsticks; one has rolled almost to the bookshelf, the other in the opposite direction. By the stool, the notebook lies there, face up. I can't read the words from where I'm sitting, but it's not like I've forgotten what they say.

For the life of me I can't figure out what would possess someone to act in such a way, to invade my personal space.

What the hell am I going to do now?
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