When Scott Monroe left the local Ultimart at seven p.m., heads turned. Not because he was incredibly handsome or outlandishly wealthy. In fact, he wasn’t particularly attractive at all, and the word “wealthy” certainly didn’t suit him. No, heads turned because those people knew, just by looking at him, that he was in love. He knew it, too. He beamed wildly, and the men and women passing him on the street could feel the joy rolling off him in waves.
Scott reached an intersection. He crossed it unhurriedly, taking his time. He usually took his time on most things he did. Scott was a self-professed people-watcher, and he couldn’t help slowing himself to “stop and smell the roses.” However, upon checking his watch, Scott began to quicken his pace. It was getting late, and he knew Ellie didn’t like to be kept waiting. That would just make her happier to see him, though.
There are people who love the city, and that night was a supreme example of why. The sky was gradually darkening from a clear blue to a deep violet, and it seemed as if everyone was standing outside of the assortment of restaurants, laundromats, and thrift stores that governed the streets, simply watching and smiling.
As Scott strode down the street, he managed to catch a few snatches of news nobody wanted to hear from a radio sitting on a steaming hot dog cart: “Deadly hatchet killer still on the loose . . . child dies in school bus wreck . . . second break-in at local jewelry store . . .” As the list continued, Scott sped up. Hearing those kinds of things always made him uneasy.
The shopping bag, although light with purchases, was beginning to strain his right arm, so he switched it to his left. It was as he did this, that something in his jacket nudged up against him. He looked down at it quizzically; he hadn’t remembered putting anything there. As he reached down to straighten what ever it was into a more agreeable position, something slid across his face, melting the cheerful expression he usually wore. But then it was gone, and he continued to smile. He had that problem, always forgetting where he put things.
It had become night at an alarming rate, and Scott began to jog a little. Nighttime always made him a little on the edge, and he didn’t know why. But he assuaged himself by remembering what he and Ellie would do when he got home. Cook a nice, romantic dinner. Listen to music, curled up on the couch. Maybe even dance a little, if he were lucky.
He twisted down a corner, jogged across the street, turned on an adjacent road, and made his way down the alleyway that served as the entrance to their apartment. Scott slowed to a halt. He was here, but the door wasn’t. He stared, alarmed, at the blank space where the door used to be. Now it was only grimy brick and a dented trashcan.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, came a woman. Scott turned round, noticing the movement out of the corner of his eye, and the smile reappeared on his face. He hadn’t gone down far enough! He walked towards the girl, arms wide, beaming. “Hey Ellie, I was worried I’d lost the door!” he said.
She smiled, and said, “I’m sorry, but you must have me wrong, my name’s not Ellie, its Chelsea.”
“What?” Scott looked at her in apprehension. “What do you mean, you’re not Ellie?” The girl could sense an edge of anger in his voice. She began to back away, afraid. But of course she wasn’t Ellie. Ellie had been dead for six years.
Scott advanced upon Chelsea, and she was struck with the sickening realization that it was not anger in his voice she had felt, but sadness. “Why are you lying?” he asked. Tears were brimming in his eyes. “I know you’re Ellie, so why are you lying? Just like the others. Ellie, you know I hate liars.”
And it was as he said this, that a glint caught Chelsea’s eye. She searched for its source, and found it. There, nestled in the folds of Scott’s coat, was a hatchet. He followed her eyes, and saw it, too. An emotion flittered over Scott’s face, and his eyes widened. There it was: a simple solution to all of his problems. He reached for it, and gripped the smooth handle, dropping his shopping bag as he did so.
Chelsea screamed and Scott lunged. The hatchet rose and fell. Rose and fell. The bag of groceries spilled its contents onto the dank pavement: A box of chocolates, flowers, and a small bag of mandarin oranges. Ellie loved mandarin oranges.
Scott stopped, breathing heavily. He stuffed the stained hatchet inside his jacket and replaced all of the items in the shopping bag. He left the alley as quickly as he had come. The farther he walked, the more dazed he seemed to become. His eyes glazed over and dropped the shopping bag, and Scott saw the bag of mandarin oranges tucked inside. A smile cracked on his face, and his dazed expression evaporated. They were Ellie’s favorite. He couldn’t wait to show them to her.
He began to walk a little faster, eager to get home. Whistling a little tune he had heard that day, he passed a bench where an elderly couple was sitting. As he passed, the woman leaned over to her spouse and whispered: “Why don’t you look like that anymore?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, can’t you see?” she said. “There’s nothing prettier than young love.”
