hand closed as he squeezed the
fist, and droplets of red fell from between his fingers onto the
natural boards of the porch.
He chuckled at the sight. "Don't slip on that
now," he said, then cocked his head and looked at her. "What's your
name, honey?"
She didn't answer. She could only stand
there, fascinated and horrified by the blood dripping onto her
porch.
"Well, it don't matter. I'll find out. And
I'll be seeing you ." He pointed at her with his bloody fist,
then turned and walked down the drive as nonchalantly as if he'd
just sold a vacuum cleaner, got into his truck, and drove away.
Megan stood there, the door open to the
chilling cold, for a long time. She was lost in terror, and lost in
her memory of Butch, her husband who had been as mad as this man
who smiled and drew his own blood on her porch and talked of blood
brotherhood. Their grins had been the same, the grin while the man
slashed himself, and the grin as Butch had slashed her with first
his open palm, and then his fist, and then in other, far more
intimate and more terrible ways. And the same words, over and over
again—
This is what you need, bitch...
And today, although she knew this other
madman was not, could not be Butch, it was almost as if he
had come back to torment her, to accuse her of letting him die, to
smile with that killer's grin and raise that bloody hand again and
strike her, not only with his hatred, but with her own fear.
But it must have something to do with Ned. He had
asked for Ned, he had not come for her. It must have something to
do with the other madman Ned had been forced to shoot yesterday.
Still, as she finally turned back into the house, her mind was
choked with thoughts of her husband, and that last day.
H e came home from
work angry, ready for a fight. When she wouldn't give it to him, he
hit her, and choked her, and was about to tear at her clothes, when
suddenly something inside said no, no more of this, not ever again,
and for the first time in her life she struck back. She hit him
hard with her fist, right on the jaw, and heard something
crack.
It staggered him, just enough for her to push
away, run past him and out the back door. She had no idea where she
was going, but she knew she had to run. She could no longer be the
good and patient wife, a vessel not only for her husband's lust,
but also for his hatred of his sour, circumscribed, hopeless world,
and she ran toward the rocks, thinking, rocks, won't you hide
me , the cliff in back of their house that she climbed once
nearly every day in fine weather with her strong, sinewy
fingers.
It was raining now, a light mist that dappled
the gray ridges of stone with moisture, but it would take more than
that to stop her. She knew that she was running for her life, and
she heard the heavy, sodden footsteps and the ragged, furious
breathing of her husband close behind, deadly purpose in both
sounds.
She did not pause when she reached the rocks,
but went straight up, grasping the shards and ridges as easily as a
ladder's rungs, pulling herself upward, out of reach of the taloned
hand that swept up at her like an angry bear's, to rip the skin of
her bare ankle, tear whatever it could, before she pulled it
higher, away. Megan did not look back. She only climbed, and felt
as though she were flying up the side of the cliff, a panicked bird
seeking any nest except for the bitter one it had just fled.
As if in response to her thought, a gray
swift burst from its haven in the rock above her, startling her
with its wet, feathery blur of motion so that she nearly fell, but
caught herself in time, hitched a breath, and kept climbing. She
felt safer now, high above her husband and the terrors of the
world, and she turned to look down, as she always did, without fear
of falling, as if a quick and fatal descent into Butch's world
would be better than a slow, intact one.
She was amazed to see that he was still
pursuing her, only ten feet below, his teeth bared with the effort
of
fist, and droplets of red fell from between his fingers onto the
natural boards of the porch.
He chuckled at the sight. "Don't slip on that
now," he said, then cocked his head and looked at her. "What's your
name, honey?"
She didn't answer. She could only stand
there, fascinated and horrified by the blood dripping onto her
porch.
"Well, it don't matter. I'll find out. And
I'll be seeing you ." He pointed at her with his bloody fist,
then turned and walked down the drive as nonchalantly as if he'd
just sold a vacuum cleaner, got into his truck, and drove away.
Megan stood there, the door open to the
chilling cold, for a long time. She was lost in terror, and lost in
her memory of Butch, her husband who had been as mad as this man
who smiled and drew his own blood on her porch and talked of blood
brotherhood. Their grins had been the same, the grin while the man
slashed himself, and the grin as Butch had slashed her with first
his open palm, and then his fist, and then in other, far more
intimate and more terrible ways. And the same words, over and over
again—
This is what you need, bitch...
And today, although she knew this other
madman was not, could not be Butch, it was almost as if he
had come back to torment her, to accuse her of letting him die, to
smile with that killer's grin and raise that bloody hand again and
strike her, not only with his hatred, but with her own fear.
But it must have something to do with Ned. He had
asked for Ned, he had not come for her. It must have something to
do with the other madman Ned had been forced to shoot yesterday.
Still, as she finally turned back into the house, her mind was
choked with thoughts of her husband, and that last day.
H e came home from
work angry, ready for a fight. When she wouldn't give it to him, he
hit her, and choked her, and was about to tear at her clothes, when
suddenly something inside said no, no more of this, not ever again,
and for the first time in her life she struck back. She hit him
hard with her fist, right on the jaw, and heard something
crack.
It staggered him, just enough for her to push
away, run past him and out the back door. She had no idea where she
was going, but she knew she had to run. She could no longer be the
good and patient wife, a vessel not only for her husband's lust,
but also for his hatred of his sour, circumscribed, hopeless world,
and she ran toward the rocks, thinking, rocks, won't you hide
me , the cliff in back of their house that she climbed once
nearly every day in fine weather with her strong, sinewy
fingers.
It was raining now, a light mist that dappled
the gray ridges of stone with moisture, but it would take more than
that to stop her. She knew that she was running for her life, and
she heard the heavy, sodden footsteps and the ragged, furious
breathing of her husband close behind, deadly purpose in both
sounds.
She did not pause when she reached the rocks,
but went straight up, grasping the shards and ridges as easily as a
ladder's rungs, pulling herself upward, out of reach of the taloned
hand that swept up at her like an angry bear's, to rip the skin of
her bare ankle, tear whatever it could, before she pulled it
higher, away. Megan did not look back. She only climbed, and felt
as though she were flying up the side of the cliff, a panicked bird
seeking any nest except for the bitter one it had just fled.
As if in response to her thought, a gray
swift burst from its haven in the rock above her, startling her
with its wet, feathery blur of motion so that she nearly fell, but
caught herself in time, hitched a breath, and kept climbing. She
felt safer now, high above her husband and the terrors of the
world, and she turned to look down, as she always did, without fear
of falling, as if a quick and fatal descent into Butch's world
would be better than a slow, intact one.
She was amazed to see that he was still
pursuing her, only ten feet below, his teeth bared with the effort
of
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