Interesting first draft, Tony! I edited it to make it more marketable.
Mary tossed and turned in bed. She was having a nightmare about the man who had killed her father metaphorically—it was all in her head.
She got out of bed and looked out the window. He was there holding a dull knife, smiling like a gentleman caller with the panache of a good man. Gee wiz! He was lethal.
“Come down here so I can kill you,” he lied at the top of his lungs. “You know what I didn’t do to your father? I’m not going to do that to you too, until you’re dead. This is also a practical joke,” he growled.
“I do love a good prank!” Mary panted, cowering under her bed, sweating. Quickly, she ran to her very much alive father’s bedroom to find the 38-caliber scarf. She cocked it. She would offer it to him as a sign of friendship for her life.
Like a machine, the man burst through the front door after politely ringing it. “Mary, Maryyyy Debra Allan!” He knew her full name, how thoughtful. Mary met the gaze of his two good working eyes. He ran at her. She produced the scarf.
“My god, that’s a nice scarf you got there, Mary,” the man said, remarking on how nice a scarf it was. “I’m going to wrap my racially neutral hands around that pretty neck of yours to feel that stitch work.” “You stitch too?” she asked. He rolled his eyes. She giggled. He laughed maniacally.
She made a break for it. It was now or never. If she had any chance for relaxation, it would be in the old cellar, full of delicious wine.
But he was there too. So they opened a bottle of wine and drank it until the last drop was consumed. They got tipsy. They danced. They fell in love. They moved to Paris for a summer, where she became with child. They named him Rufus. They grew old together and raised more children, and even a dog. He was there with her for the cancer scare; he was there when it came back a second time for real. They kissed every night before they went to bed. They grew old.
Everyone was alive.