Stacy
in
The Red Carpet Treatment
A short Daria fanwork by cyde
The silence of a beautiful late April afternoon was pierced by a lazy honking
call.
Stacy Rowe wandered out of her hiding place in the hallway linen closet,
absently making her way toward the living room. Stumbling over her own feet as
she entered the common area, she mumbled an incoherent reprimand for her own
clumsiness.
"Mom and Dad won't be happy about this mess," she lamented in a
curiously flat tone of voice as she seated herself in the remains of the plate
glass sliding door. "I need to clean this up before Mom and Dad wake
up."
Unaware of the shards of glass digging into and lacerating her hands, Stacy
lazily pushed the pieces around as she reflected.
She had been walking from her room to the bathroom when the sound of glass
shattering was heard. Panicked, but not daring to breathe, Stacy stood
completely still in the hallway. Truly a deer in headlights.
Comforted by the sound of her parents' bedroom door opening, Stacy turned to
her father.
"Get in the closet, pumpkin, and don't come out no matter what. Don't make
a sound," ordered her father in a harsh whisper, pointing to the linen
closet. "Your mother is hiding in our room. I'm going to try to get to the
phone to call 911."
Obeying, Stacy made rather an admirable hiding place for herself behind the
dirty clothes basket. Holding her breath to prevent a sob from escaping, she
prayed for the first time since she was in seventh grade.
After the echoing report of the first gunshot faded, Stacy pressed her face to
her hands and wept. After the second firecracker went off in her parents'
bedroom, Stacy briefly wondered why her father was ignoring everything he'd
ever told her about fireworks safety. She ceased to remember after that.
"Besides," she asked herself "why would Dad even keep fireworks
around... after what happened with Mom..."
Stacy was brought back to semi-awareness by the sound of the doorbell.
"No, that can't be right," Stacy mused. "the
doorbell isn't at the bottom of a lake."
Ignoring her own doubts, she yelled out, "Come on in. It's open,"
though it came out in a whisper. The doorbell rang several more times.
Uncertain, Stacy ignored it.
Pushing the door open, Quinn Morgendorffer's frustrated cry died on her lips as
she surveyed the obliterated living room and her dear friend sitting on the
floor in a pile of glass, her hands a mangled, bloody mess.
"Stacy, ohmigod! What happened??" Quinn
shouted.
"You don't have to whisper, Quinn," Stacy admonished her friend with
a conspiratorial grin. "my parents are pretty
deep sleepers."
"STAY-ceee!!" Quinn squealed, terrified. "what
happened to the house? You've been robbed! What happened to your hands?? Where
are your parents??"
"Quinn, I just slipped over... I tripped broke this glass," Stacy
slurred incoherently, her eyelids drooping "my parents are asleep. Help...
clean up..."
Her heart beating wildly in her chest, Quinn began looking around the house,
calling for Stacy's parents, searching the kitchen, the bathrooms, Stacy's
room... the basement. Finally, fighting instinct she opened the door to the
master bedroom.
The bile rose in Quinn's throat as what she was seeing slowly registered. She
bit back a whimper at the sight of the disemboweled figure of Mr. Rowe on the
floor in front of the closet and the headless, nude torso of Mrs. Rowe on their
marital bed. She barely noticed the wet plopping sound of her best friend's
hand landing on her shoulder in a twisted gesture of camaraderie.
"I never knew mom and dad got red carpet in their room," Stacy
wondered from right behind Quinn.
On instinct, Quinn turned to look at Stacy, finally noticing the dull glaze to
her normally bright, shiny eyes. The pieces fell into place. She glanced at the
bloodied hand on her shoulder.
Outside of Stacy's window, the ancient oak tree rustled gently in the breeze.
The silence of a beautiful late April afternoon was pierced by an almost
inhuman shriek of terror.
-----------------------------------
Thanks to Brother Grimace for giving it a quick once-over.