Chapter One: Burglars?
༺⚜ SIGRUN ⚜༻
“Is she awake?” came a loud whisper from a squeaky voice.
Up until that exact second, I’d been half asleep. I figured I had just forgotten to turn off the TV before going to bed, and I groaned lazily because I was far too comfortable to get up.
So with my eyes still squeezed shut, I tried to communicate with the TV telepathically to turn itself off.
Of course, it didn’t—because inanimate objects actually have a mind of their own, no matter what Science tells you.
More muffled whispers followed.
“Don’t be daft, Conny. You can see that she’s not.”
“Aye, aye, wha’ever. There’s no need to be mean, Rita.”
I tried to nestle deeper into the sheets but tensed when then it dawned on me that the whispers were sounding way closer than my TV screen.
I went rigid with fear. There could only be one explanation: burglars.
(Although I’d never thought there could ever be female burglars with Irish accents named Conny and Rita—but what did I know?)
“Oh, shut it, Conny. Ye’ll wake her up, ye oaf!”
I kept my eyes shut, figuring they wouldn’t be too pleased to know I was conscious. I thought of the baseball bat by my couch, but that was too far away.
Darn it.
I made a quick mental inventory of my worldly possessions in my apartment that may or may not be worth stealing:
a half-finished plate of Thai takeout; a buy-two-get-one-free pizza coupon; my ridiculously expensive paint palettes; an unfinished Mona Lisa copy for my art class assignment; twelve dollars in my purse; and the silver chain beside my lamp—the only thing I had left of my mom.
“Oh, oh, aye. Sorry!” the voice which—judging by the squeakiness—I’m guessing was Conny’s, whispered apologetically.
“Ye is always sorry, Conny. An’ prepare de bath. She’ll be up pretty soon.”
Prepare the bath?
A sad sigh followed. “Poor Sigrùn. I know she’s scared of being made to marry her betrothed Varul, but she didn’ have ta run away. Who knows what would have happened ta her if the guards hadn’ found her on time.”
Betrothed? Run away? Guards?
Okay, what the hell was going on here? What kind of burglars were they?
I tensed even more when another unsettling thought came to me.
Oh my God.
What if they were escapees from a mental hospital that had somehow found their way into my apartment? But as soon as the thought materialized, I discarded it because it didn’t make sense. If they were mental patients, then how the hell did they know my name?
Their conversation was getting weirder by the minute. And so was my internal monologue.
“Get on with it, Conny,” Rita hissed. “The wedding is in a few hours and the queen is already mad with her as it is. Help me get these filthy clothes off her.”
What? I don’t think so.
I tried to recall the self-defense Jeet Kune Do classes my best friend Eva made me take last two summers. Hopefully, I hadn’t forgotten too much of it.
The plan was simple: take out one of them, race for my phone on the couch, call 911. Good plan.
Satisfied with my strategy, I prepared to strike—until my brain shifted into full overthinker mode.
What if they have weapons like clubs or guns? What if I run out of cell service at that exact moment? What if—
I realized I was beginning to hyperventilate. So I tried to coach myself with a breathing exercise I’d once seen somewhere—probably on one of those numerous health magazines I loved to binge-read at the dentist’s office. Apparently, counting numbers and thinking happy thoughts was a good breath regulator.
Okay, breathe, Sigrún. Count numbers and think of happy things.
One, two, rainbows and sunshine, three, four, cakes and chocolates…
For a few seconds, it was actually beginning to work—right up until I felt a hand touch my torso.
I opened my eyes and screamed bloody murder.
