A Boyfriend who Likes to Play Pranks - Chapter 1

A boyfriend who likes to play pranks My boyfriend, Mark, loved pranks. Like, really loved them. He’d put fake roaches in the rice cooker, hide in the closet dressed as a burglar… you name it. I’d fought with him about it so many times, but it never made a difference.

Then came my birthday.

Walking home from work, I was dragged into a dark alley and assaulted. The guy tied me up, blindfolded me… it was the worst half hour of my life.

After he left, I somehow managed to pull myself together and stumble home. Mark was in our bedroom, playing video games.

I was hysterical, begging him to take me to the hospital so I could get a rape kit and then go to the police.

He just burst out laughing. “Babe, you totally fell for it! That was me! Pretty awesome prank, right?”

Looking at his laughing face, my heart turned to ice. As his laughter echoed in my ears, I picked up my phone and called 911.

Earlier that day, during lunch break, my coworker, Sarah, came over to chat.

She saw my lunchbox. “You bring your lunch every day?”

I felt a little awkward. “Mark makes it for me.”

Sarah was surprised. “He’s a keeper! Mind if I take a peek?”

I nodded, and before I knew it, she’d flipped open the lid. A plastic cockroach sprang out, hitting her right in the face.

Sarah screamed, falling backward with her chair.

I rushed to help her up. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry! Mark loves his pranks. I didn’t think he’d… I’m really sorry.”

Sarah was pale. “Your boyfriend is… kind of messed up, don’t you think?” She immediately regretted saying it, waving her hands dismissively as she hurried away.

I sighed, picking up the plastic cockroach.

Honestly, it was a pretty lame prank, even for Mark. He called himself a “prank master,” claiming adult life was too boring and needed some spice.

He started with those cheesy gag gifts fake roaches, rubber snakes in the bed. I’d be terrified, and he’d be on the floor, howling with laughter.

I started getting immune to the cheap stuff, so he upped his game. He said he needed something more “intense.”

So he started staging elaborate scenarios. He’d lie on the floor covered in fake blood, waiting for me to come home and freak out. Then he’d jump up, yelling “Surprise!”

He’d pretend to be a robber, holding a toy knife to my back, enjoying my terror.

Last year for my birthday, he faked an affair. I found a fake hotel receipt and fabricated text messages. I was furious. I stormed into the hotel room with a friend, ready to catch him red–handed. He was lying on the bed dressed as a gift, yelling “Happy Birthday!”

My friend just stared at him, then at me, and said, “Your boyfriend is… something else.”

We’d had so many fights about these stupid pranks. He’d always apologize profusely, shower me with gifts, and swear he’d never do it again. And, like an idiot, I’d always forgive him.

We’d been together for seven years, since college. We were each other’s first love. Everyone considered us the perfect couple. Besides the pranks, Mark was great. He was handsome, funny, had a good job, and was sweet to my parents.

So I kept making excuses for him. Just a few weeks ago, I’d warned him again. I told him I wanted a quiet, normal birthday this year. He’d promised.

I stared at the plastic cockroach in my hand and texted him: “Didn’t I say no pranks for my birthday?”

He texted back quickly: “Sorry babe! I totally forgot it was in there. Come home soon tonight, I have a surprise!”

My parents kept offering to buy me a car, but I’m a terrible driver, so I always refused.

It was raining that night. I got off the train after dark. Mark said he had a surprise waiting for me. I was excited and a little apprehensive.

He told me to take the shortcut, he’d meet me at the corner. The shortcut saved time, but it was isolated and creepy, with no streetlights or security cameras. I only ever used it when Mark was meeting me.

As I reached the corner, Mark texted:

“Something came up, can’t make it. Just come home, waiting for you!”

I was annoyed, but it was only a short walk, so I kept going. The street was deserted. I clutched my purse and picked up my pace.

Then I saw him. A man, lurking in a dark alleyway, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. A cigarette glowed red in his hand. I couldn’t see his face, and my stomach tightened.

I figured if I could just make it past him, I’d be at the back gate of our apartment complex, less than 30 yards away. I practically ran.

As I passed him, he lunged out and grabbed my arm. I screamed, but he slapped a hand over my mouth. The smell of stale cigarettes filled my nostrils.

He dragged me into the alley. I struggled, but my head felt heavy, my limbs weak. I realized he’d sprayed something on his hand… something that made me go limp.

He blindfolded me, tied my hands and feet. With my sight gone, my other senses became heightened. I heard the rustling of my clothes, his ragged breathing…

“My phone… my phone…”