11

The girl was hiding under my desk.

I suppose that statement begs a description of my furniture. I’ve changed desk types now, although I’ve used the exact same style of work desk ever since that change (my work isn’t the only consistent routine). The desk in my apartment back then, however, was the same type of stereotypical work desk that you would see in an elementary schooler’s room. Mainly because it was easy and convenient to put a bookshelf in front of it… no, wait, that was a justification I added later. If I had to be brutally honest, the reason a university student was using that style of desk probably boiled down to, “Because I’ve been using it forever”.

But it’s not like it caused anyone else any issues, and I still got all my work done on it, so it was no big deal. Nobody had any right to complain about it.

Besides, the style of the desk wouldn’t have changed a child’s ability to hide under it. Even if it had a glass top or something, then she could have just hidden somewhere else.

Under the bed. In the closet. In the bathroom. On my veranda. A kid can hide almost anywhere. She just happened to choose my desk that day.

As soon as I got home, I tossed my jacket somewhere (another bad habit of mine that still sticks around, just leaving stuff on the floor), washed my hands and gargled, and took care of a few other daily necessities. Finally, I sat down at my desk, booting up a word processor.

Back then, I was still using a dedicated word processor to write novels… or at least, something approaching them, to submit to magazine contests. I never got around to using a computer back then… or more like, I didn’t dare try. For someone who values routines, cutting-edge technology is to be avoided like the plague. It took long enough just for me to get my hands on a cell phone. To a degree, however, I can’t deny that part of me just wanted to look like an old-fashioned weirdo. I like new things as much as the next guy, but when I finally caved and bought new equipment, it was more for work purposes, which is to say I used them as reference material.

Incidentally, my research tells me that dedicated word processors aren’t really developed any more. Putting aside the fact that computers nowadays are packed with so many features that nobody could take full advantage of within their whole lifetime, I think that it’s too distracting to have access to anything else while trying to work. I can’t stand anything other than complete silence while I work. I’ve heard of authors working with a TV or radio playing in the background, but I find that hard to believe. I’m so neurotic that even construction work within the neighborhood is enough to drive me to a quieter place. I’d like to prepare a soundproofed room for my work, eventually. Being surrounded by nothing but the clacking of keys would be very pleasant.

I hope that word processors with no other functions come back in vogue. Maybe by writing this, I can convince some manufacturers that they would have a target audience.

Back to what I was sharing earlier.

Just as I was turning on my word processor, I felt a sharp pain in my left ankle under the desk table.

My first thought was I had stepped on a tack, or that my bad habit of throwing things on the floor had gotten the better of me, until I realized that it wouldn’t make sense for the pain to be on my ankle in that case.

I pulled back my chair reflexively, glancing under the desk… and there she was.

A young elementary school girl, sequestered under my desk like some monster in hiding, stabbing through my jeans into my ankle with a knife.

The girl paid no mind to her knife, my bleeding ankle, or my ripped jeans. She just looked up at me in complete silence.

It was like she was an observer taking notes on me.

That was the moment I finally recognized her as the girl from a week prior, matching her with the girl from that morning and making her the elementary schooler who had thrown their recorder into my bike’s path. Everything finally began to click into place far too late.

That led to other possibilities coming together that I hadn’t considered. Like the idea that I was far too careful to have lost my keys, and that she had actually taken them after my fall. That had to be the case, because there she was in my room. She had trespassed and waited for me.

After I realized that, I didn’t need to check my wallet to know that my student ID card was missing. If not that, then something else with my address printed on it. She had premeditated everything, lying in wait in my own room to catch me by surprise.

But it couldn’t have been that premeditated.

After all, she was incredibly lucky for the situation to have ended up so much in her favor. Worst-case scenario, I could have just died from the fall that morning. Stealing my key and student ID was incredibly clumsy and risky. Not to mention the risk of just waiting in my room for so long. There was even a third party nearby not long before, the lock changer. What if I had invited him in for tea on a whim (to be fair, I have a hard time imagining myself to be that social, but even I express kindness towards strangers every once in a while)? She would have been found under the desk in that case. Maybe it made a decent hide-and-seek spot, but it would have been useless if anyone else was around. Then there was the possibility of me bringing home a friend, unlikely though it may have been… Okay, I’ll be honest, I’d never had a friend over.

Regardless, a more appropriate word to describe her approach would have been “haphazard”. But the seemingly random method of her approach made it even harder to figure out what she would do next.

Even thinking about her sitting there, lurking under my desk while there was a third person outside my door, holding her knife in anticipation… the thought robbed me of my breath.

“…” The girl muttered something quietly. Her voice was spectacularly low, a huge contrast to her crying and screaming over her friend the week prior.

I knew she had said something, I just couldn’t make it out. That was likely just as much due to the tension filling the room as it was to her quietness.

I was sure she had said something dark, or terrifying. It certainly couldn’t have been a harmless or canned phrase like, “It is nice to meet you.” Or so I thought.

“…”

As she muttered to herself oh-so-quietly, she revealed a knife in her other hand, and while still holding one blade against my ankle, she held another up towards my face.