a nightmare house, irreconcilable geometries. rooms at wrong angles to one another. imagine building a quaint modern-but-rustic cottage using a skate park as its foundation.
i do not know the people living here, but i know it is my family — my wife, children, in-laws. a holiday gathering. aunts in the kitchen. it is dark outside as i cautiously approach a window in the sitting room. snow on the ground and a great dark forest beyond.
just below the window frame, the dark curve of someone crouching. he doesn’t want to be seen, yet. he will come in through a side door silently, to do harm. he carries a long knife. i move away from the window but he rises to his full height. too tall. black clothes, black balaclava — but the mask is ornate with silver embroidery, like a luchador’s. he wanted to be seen once he begins. he is planning a spectacle.
his eyes are on me, but i don’t run. i decide my best chance at survival is to convince him that he has found a like mind, an accomplice. i slowly nod yes, yes, and put a broad smile on my face. i glance at the kitchen door behind me. he climbs in through the window like a daddy longlegs.
sounds of cooking, talking, laughing on the other side of the door. the long knife in his hand. i nod encouragingly, knowingly, and he mocks this delicious suspense by hopping foot to foot.
but my body language is wrong; i’m too hesitant, too eager for him to turn away from me so that i can escape. he knows there is no rush to begin the spectacle. he is looking at me uncertainly, as if to say but where is your long knife? then he mimes snapping his fingers, eureka, imaginary light bulb above his head.
he draws another, like his. offers it to me. i force a delighted expression on my face and grip the knife. i have played my cards all wrong and the ruse has failed. he will make me go first.