Bridget rolled onto her side, tangled in a mess of sheets and her down comforter, willing her heavy eyes to open. Thunder gently rumbled through the sky and the sound of rain beat against the windows in a rhythmic tap, threatening to lull her back to sleep if she didn’t drag herself out of bed soon.
There was no excuse to leave the apartment on a rainy Saturday, except for the cabinet lacking coffee or anything substantial to eat. Toast and more than likely expired black tea wouldn’t do the trick this time. Bridget slid out of bed and rooted around in the dresser for something to throw on, settling on a pair of joggers and the biggest hoodie she could find. The sweatshirt was one she couldn’t bear to give up for sentimental reasons, despite its little blemishes and fraying hem. It belonged to someone she hoped might drift back into the orbit of her life one day.
She grabbed her keys and an umbrella on the way out the door, blowing a kiss to her dog, Paddy. The rain had slowed from a torrential downpour to a steady shower, giving the world a good wash; everything smelled fresh and vibrant. Bridget kicked at puddles with the toes of her boots while she wandered down the street, watching the water arc and fall. There was a coffee shop a few blocks from her place, but being out in the rain was peaceful, and with nowhere else to be it seemed like a good idea to finally explore the neighborhood beyond her front door.
Thoughts of the boxes piled along the perimeter of almost every room back at the apartment drifted up to the front of her mind. It had been close to two months and still there were things to put away. Settling in was happening slowly. Some days a few knick knacks found their new home on a shelf and other days it took all of Bridget’s mental energy to un-flap a box and survey its contents. She walked for blocks before realizing the buildings around her were familiar ones and it took a few moments for the reality to sink in that Bridget was dangerously close to her old apartment. The place she shared with Adam.
She hadn’t stepped foot inside the shop for what felt like ages, but in reality was a few months at most. It used to be part of her familiar routine: go for a walk, grab coffee, return home to write. Bridget sat in the same chair every visit, the one with a small tear in the brown vinyl cushion nearly dead center. It faced the gallery wall where every few weeks a different artist’s work was displayed; sometimes surreal landscape photographs swept across the white wall and sometimes there were drawings bordering on the grotesque.
Bridget took a deep breath and approached the door of the shop, listening for the familiar chime of the bell above. Everything appeared the same, and she wasn’t the only one seeking temporary refuge from the rain. Most tables were full of people tapping away on their computers or reclined against the booths with books in hand; by some miracle her spot was clear. She shuffled over to the line and ordered a chai latte, swiping her cup from the counter to make a beeline for her favorite corner.
The first sips of her drink tasted like heaven. She closed her eyes and let herself feel the warmth chasing the chill out of her body. When she opened them, she found herself locked in a stare with one of the paintings on the wall. It was the portrait of a young woman who eerily resembled her; light brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and a slightly rounded jaw. Half of the face was stuck in an intense gaze, but the other half was something that could only be described as disturbing. Flesh peeled away from the woman’s face in sheets, like the way old wallpaper begins to curl after a long time. Her hand, twisted at unnatural angles, clawed deep into the muscle. Beneath her mauled skin were multicolored wires, sparking and smoking.
Bridget was mesmerized by the vulgar piece of art. As soon as she began to look away Bridget noticed the mouth in the painting twitch; the woman’s lips convulsed until what looked like oil came pouring from her throat. Bridget screamed, shrinking away from the wall and dropping to the floor while the rest of the coffee shop looked on in horror.
The Rummy Writer 