not touch it. I could feel the heat rising from his skin and wondered what feverish, perverse dreams were running through his head. What was he doing to Jenny in that dark theater behind his eyes? I withdrew my hand as if afraid the poison that coursed through his veins might leap out and infect me, and let my gaze wander down over his body from the cleft of his unshaven chin down over his throat, to the hairs curling out over the neck of his sweater, to his chest as it slowly rose and fell. Here I placed my hand, so that I could feel his heartbeat, and there it was, racing with excitement. At once, depraved images of my husband and my little girl tried to implant themselves in my head, pulsing into my brain in time with his heartbeat, and I quickly stood, my body quivering with repulsion. The flashes had been brief, but enough. His tanned, muscular body crushing her pale skin while she screamed against the hand he had clamped over her mouth. Her eyes wide with fear, glassy with disgust, self-loathing, and horror. And in her mind, the desperate hope that it would be over soon, that I would discover them and make it all better.
For only the briefest of moments I watched him, sleeping like a baby, like an innocent, before I hurried into the kitchen, fetched what I needed, and returned, tears streaming down my face. My skull became a cave roaring with the echoes of a thousand voices, all of them united in a singular chorus in order to drown out the only one not in tune. The one that screamed: What if you're wrong?
I told myself it was possible.
But then, anything was possible.
Thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance.
Sudden rain hit the window in a scattershot spray.
Chris twitched, moaned in his sleep.
And woke.
Jesus Christ, Gillian , stop. What if you're wrong? the lone voice whispered. It was not loud enough, not persuasive enough to make a difference, or to be heard above the ululating crowd, who now filled my head with their bloodlust song.
I could be wrong , I thought.
Chris opened his eyes, blinked and looked blearily up at me.
But I'm not.
"Honey?" he asked, a quaver in his voice as his confused gaze dropped to the knife I hel d tightly in one trembling hand. "What...what are you doing?"
Instantly, the voices fell quiet.
"What I should have done a long time ago," I told him, and plunged the knife into his stomach. Or rather, tried to. I had underestimated the amount of force necessary to drive the blade into him and managed only to penetrate a half inch or so of his flesh before he screamed and rolled off the couch, hit the floor, then quickly scrabbled to his feet. His eyes were glassy with terror.
"Gillian!" he cried , wincing and doubled over slightly in pain. "What the fuck are you doing? " Hands covering the small hole I'd made in him, he backed away from me. "What's the matter with you?"
Confused and shocked, he did not move fast enough as I quickly stepped close and slashed the knife across his face, narrowly missing his eyes. He cried out again, a deep vertical red line opening just beneath his eyelids and across the bridge of his nose. Stunned, he staggered backward, one hand now raised to probe the extent of the damage to his face. Blood ran freely down his cheeks, welled on the tip of his nose.
"You won't touch her ever again," I told him, and my voice sounded alien to my ears. Younger, perhaps, and angrier. The old me, the wounded me. The victim.
He raised his ha nds in surrender. "Gillian, honey...let me call someone. Let me get you some help. You're sick, but we can fix it."
I lunged forward, dodging his attempt to block me with a skill and agility of which I had not known myself capable, and thrust the knife into the meat of his right thigh with such force that the blade bent a little. Chris howled in agony, stumbled, and fell gracelessly to the floor.
"Gillian, my God, look at what you're doing ! Please , baby..."
The hardwood was spattered with his blood. The right leg of his
For only the briefest of moments I watched him, sleeping like a baby, like an innocent, before I hurried into the kitchen, fetched what I needed, and returned, tears streaming down my face. My skull became a cave roaring with the echoes of a thousand voices, all of them united in a singular chorus in order to drown out the only one not in tune. The one that screamed: What if you're wrong?
I told myself it was possible.
But then, anything was possible.
Thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance.
Sudden rain hit the window in a scattershot spray.
Chris twitched, moaned in his sleep.
And woke.
Jesus Christ, Gillian , stop. What if you're wrong? the lone voice whispered. It was not loud enough, not persuasive enough to make a difference, or to be heard above the ululating crowd, who now filled my head with their bloodlust song.
I could be wrong , I thought.
Chris opened his eyes, blinked and looked blearily up at me.
But I'm not.
"Honey?" he asked, a quaver in his voice as his confused gaze dropped to the knife I hel d tightly in one trembling hand. "What...what are you doing?"
Instantly, the voices fell quiet.
"What I should have done a long time ago," I told him, and plunged the knife into his stomach. Or rather, tried to. I had underestimated the amount of force necessary to drive the blade into him and managed only to penetrate a half inch or so of his flesh before he screamed and rolled off the couch, hit the floor, then quickly scrabbled to his feet. His eyes were glassy with terror.
"Gillian!" he cried , wincing and doubled over slightly in pain. "What the fuck are you doing? " Hands covering the small hole I'd made in him, he backed away from me. "What's the matter with you?"
Confused and shocked, he did not move fast enough as I quickly stepped close and slashed the knife across his face, narrowly missing his eyes. He cried out again, a deep vertical red line opening just beneath his eyelids and across the bridge of his nose. Stunned, he staggered backward, one hand now raised to probe the extent of the damage to his face. Blood ran freely down his cheeks, welled on the tip of his nose.
"You won't touch her ever again," I told him, and my voice sounded alien to my ears. Younger, perhaps, and angrier. The old me, the wounded me. The victim.
He raised his ha nds in surrender. "Gillian, honey...let me call someone. Let me get you some help. You're sick, but we can fix it."
I lunged forward, dodging his attempt to block me with a skill and agility of which I had not known myself capable, and thrust the knife into the meat of his right thigh with such force that the blade bent a little. Chris howled in agony, stumbled, and fell gracelessly to the floor.
"Gillian, my God, look at what you're doing ! Please , baby..."
The hardwood was spattered with his blood. The right leg of his
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