One is the Loneliest Number

 

Image by Elsa Olofsson, courtesy of Unsplash

Yeah Write Weekly Challenge #493

Character: A massage therapist with autophobia

Action: Smoking a cigarette

Cassandra dug into Scott’s rhomboids. He sighed with pleasure. After a while, the fingers paused, and Scott felt a runnel of warm oil down his spine. He tensed as Cassandra probed the muscles on either side.

Scott sighed again. “That feels awesome.”

Cassandra said nothing, just continued to work his back. 

“Turn over, please.”

Scott found himself looking at the clock and noticed they’d gone over the hour. Should he say something? Therapists usually timed their sessions to the minute. Still, he was her last customer and Cassandra was clearly in no hurry to get rid of him. Her massage was having the desired effect. He could stay here all night. 

His pecs had never felt so relaxed as Cassandra worked the muscles and tendons near his collarbones and neck. 

Scott started to feel guilty. “We’ve gone over time. I’ve kept you long enough.”

“Oh, but I haven’t kept you long enough.” With that, Cassandra pressed down on either side of his neck. 

An electric current surged through Scott’s head. He was immobilised.

“What the fuck did you do?!” he screamed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. The effect is temporary. It lasts about thirty minutes. Just long enough.”

Scott was wild-eyed. He recollected Kathy Bates in Misery. “Long enough for what?”

“For me to smoke three joints. Then I’ll fall asleep until morning. The nights are the worst.”

“You’re kidnapping me so you can get high?”

“It’s not that. I can’t bear to be alone. It’s the reason I became a masseuse. I must have company.”

“Then get a cat.” From the shoulders down, Scott’s body had gone numb. “You’re insane!”

Cassandra seemed oblivious. She extracted a joint from a silver cigarette case, fired it up and took a long toke. She appeared deep in reflection and was silent for a long time.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but I have such severe autophobia that I’ve had to resort to desperate measures to relieve it.” She finished the first joint and took out the second, pausing to bring a fit of giggles under control.

“How is that my problem?”

Cassandra snorted mirthfully. “It’s your problem at the moment.”

“Look, reverse this thing, and I’ll go. I promise I won’t call the cops.”

Cassandra took another toke and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. “No can do, Daddy-o. It wears off itself after, I dunno, some day.” Again she was convulsed with laughter.

“This isn’t funny. You said about thirty minutes, yeah?”

“Yeah”

“Is that true?”

“Yeah, it is. I definitely said thirty minutes.”

Scott sighed in frustration. “Yes, but is that correct?”

“Oh, honey, I say a lotta things. The main thing is you’re here to keep me company.”

Cassandra started rummaging through the fridge, collecting the ingredients for an ambitious sandwich. Halfway through its construction, her head jerked towards Scott, her eyes narrowing, voice hardening. “Don’t think of running out on me, you bastard!”

“Be a bit hard, wouldn’t it?”

Cassandra squinted at Scott’s supine form and grunted. She fumbled for her cigarette case and carefully placed the roach inside. She took out the third joint, yawned cavernously, then slumped against the kitchen bench. 

It took her several attempts to fire up as she struggled to hoist herself onto the bench. Toking contentedly and swinging her legs like a child, Cassandra looked around vacantly. She leaned back, supporting herself with her hands. One brushed the bottle of mayonnaise. She swung around and gathered the sandwich fixings around her, dropping particles of ash onto the bread. She was now supported by her hip and elbow as she completed the sandwich and attempted to cut it. 

As she fumbled with the knife, she rocked backwards, lost her balance, and crashed to the floor. She landed on her back with a surprised grunt. The still-held knife had its own momentum and penetrated her neck, nicking the jugular vein. Cassandra panicked and yanked the knife out, producing a geyser that her clutching, dope-addled fingers could not staunch.

Scott could only hear gasping, thrashing and gurgling. “What’s happened? Are you hurt? Answer me!” The only reply was a liquid gasp.

Scott looked at the clock. Forty-seven minutes had elapsed with no change in his condition. A scream erupted from his throat.

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