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take a look and write you some prescriptions,” Jamie said , standing. 
    “You will not touch me,” Elena Ionesco replied.  “Not if my life depended on it.  I will not see my own soul lost to your wicked touch.”   And with that, she disappeared from the room, leaving a stunned Jamie Whitman behind.

Chapter 4
     
    A dozen conflicting emotions warred within Jamie’s head as he drove home that evening.  Anger and outrage.  Confusion and uncertainty.  Guilt and indignation.  He replayed that final confrontation with the old gypsy woman several times during the first fifteen minutes of his ride but failed to make any sense of the conversation.  He had done many bad things in his life, most before the age of fifteen, but those were youthful indiscretions and could hardly define him as evil . 
    In the end, after much soul-searching, Jamie dismissed Elena Ionesco’s words as the simple ramblings of an old woman who was probably coming down with a serious case of dementia.  Growing up in Eastern Europe during the second World War, as Jamie assumed she had judging by her age and thick accent, she had probably seen her share of horrors during her childhood, and now, seventy years later, her dying synapses were triggering delusions.  She was simply suffering from a rapid neurological and psychological breakdown that was common in people in their seventies and eighties and, for some reason, his face elicited horrible memories from her past.  It was a shame, and Jamie found that he actually felt sorry for the woman.   Because of her delusions, she would suffer through the weekend without the antibiotics and pain medications, or actual treatment, that could have calmed or erased her toothache.
    Jamie finally pushed the gypsy’s face from his mind, telling himself that he was done thinking about her.  It was over.  One and done.  He would never be in the same room with her again.
    He inserted his new Godsmack CD into the in-dash CD player and cranked the volume up.  He began to sing along, the words flowing flawlessly from between his lips.  He concentrated on the music as he weaved through the traffic around him.  He thought about the upcoming weekend, his trip to Philly to see his girl, Samantha Hendricks. 
    But despite his every attempt to keep his mind on the present and the future and on purely positive thoughts, a part of his mind continually drifted back to the gypsy, and he found he couldn’t quite push aside the image of her haunting eyes and the hatred that burned within them.  Couldn’t forget the venom he had heard in her voice when she had named him monstru . Abomination
    They shouldn’t have bothered him, the accusatory looks and the irrational words of a crazy woman.  But they did.  And that brief, bizarre encounter gnawed at his mind, an insidious little worm burrowing through his brain.
     
     
    Jamie turned his three-year-old Volkswagen Jetta onto Eagle Court and guided the car to his parent’s home at the end of the cul-de-sac.  The house was a two story brownstone with a two car garage, prototypical of the homes which populated Nutley, Montclair, Belleville and all of the other tiny towns that surrounded the sewer that was Newark, New Jersey.
    His mother’s Acura was parked in the driveway but Steve’s BMW was nowhere to be seen, which meant that his stepfather hadn’t returned from the office yet.  Like most middle class American homes, his parents’ garage housed years of accumulated junk and crap instead of actual cars, and if Steve’s car was not in the driveway, he wasn’t home.  Jamie parked his car on the street in front of the house in its customary location, leaving the empty driveway spot for the Beamer. 
    He stepped out of his car, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder, and made his way up the driveway toward the front door.  As he walked, he allowed his gaze to wander over the simple house, still amazed that after all these years it still felt like home.