Page 61 - The Houseguest

of the word, “brain.” It is now just an organ that prompts a person to perform the steps required for survival.
The thing I found most intriguing within the scenes playing out in my mind was that I was not the perpetrator, but more like the puppeteer. I was like the superintendent on a jobsite or the micro-manager of a lower-level employee, calling the shots, but not doing the dirty work. It was as though my dreams began to supplement my plan of Ravenge. My subconscious mind was supplying ideas beyond what my conscious mind could construct because even I, in my heightened state of irrationalness, would stop thoughts from going to “’those” places. However, during sleep, there were no confines, no one to police the border between the normal and the deplorable.
Somewhere during the construction of my detailed Ravenge strategy, it became obvious that it would require a sucker, a flunky, a pawn. I would have to somehow unearth an ignorant and innocent patsy, to be the unwitting puppet for this puppeteer. But how and where?
I woke the next morning wearing a smile on my face having known vengeance once again during my slumber. Pouring a cup of coffee, I opened a local newspaper that had been inadvertently thrown onto the front step. We hadn’t subscribed to the paper in years. I turned the pages with disinterest, literally biding time to drink three cups of coffee and get back to the plan. It’s odd how I’d developed a normal routine for my abnormal actions.
Scanning politics, opinions, celebrity gossip and predicted weather, I turned to the obituaries and imagined writing Rachel’s as it would appear in this section: “Rachel Spence...32 years old...leaves behind a
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life