jeans had turned dark. The last wound had been a deep one, and with time, he might have bled out. But I was not willing to wait. Here before me, looking pathetic, afraid, and helpless, was a monster, crippled by defeat and the vengeance of an innocent. Felled by his own prey. No, I would not wait for him to die slowly, no matter how satisfying the thought.
" Gillian... " His face had become a monochrome portrait of horror and disbelief. I recognized that look. Had seen it in the mirror for most of my childhood. "Baby, listen to me...you have to stop. You don’t know what you’re doing."
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
He dragged himself backward with his hands. Patiently, ever-so-slowly, I followed, here and there answering his pleas for mercy, for clarity, with the blade, and by the time I was done, he had made it into the kitchen before the strength to go any further abandoned him.
"Why...?" he managed to ask. Blood continued to spread around him in an ever-widening pool from the dozen or so puncture wounds on his chest, face, arms and legs. With his resistance minimized, I'd managed —admittedly with great difficulty—to sever the tendon on the back of each foot, disabling him just in case the other wounds didn't. "Why did you do this to me? It was a mistake, that's all...that's all it was. A stupid mistake. Please, Gillian, please get help. I'm going to die." He began to sob.
"Yes you are," I told him, and knelt between his legs, felt his blood soak through my jeans. It was warm and unpleasant, but I did not intend to have to endure it long. My hands were shaking violently, my head raging with myriad voices, as I undid the button on his jeans and unzipped him.
"Honey...no... Jesus..." he whined, every word punctuated by a sob. Feebly he tried to resist me, but he was in too much pain, had lost too much blood. He looked like the ghost I intended to make of him.
“Hush now,” I whispered. “Someone will hear.”
He tried to pull away from me as I grabbed his cock and put the edge of the blade beneath his testicles.
I imagine d it impossible that no one heard the resulting scream. But such things were beyond my concern. Only the presence of my children at the door would have prevented me from finishing. At such a young age, they, or Sam at least, should be spared seeing such brutality, no matter how justified and necessary. It might warp them.
When it was done , I left Chris unconscious, fetched some string from the utility drawer and one of the deluxe freezer bags I kept for storing meat from the cabinet over the refrigerator.
It's over now , I thought, with something akin to relief and excitement, as I went to the monster's stricken body, got to my knees, and raised his head just enough to slip the freezer bag over it. Then I looped the string around his neck, cinching tight the edges of the plastic.
Then I stood and studied him.
His breath, slow and uneven, clouded the interior of the bag.
But only for a little while.
TWENTY-ONE
I dream , but I am not asleep.
Instead, life has become the dream.
I am there again, on the hill overlooking Mayberry. At my back are the crosses, driven like stakes through mounds of earth, three of which cover people I have known and lost. Perhaps Chris should be here, but he is in his own place, feeding the walnut tree at the end of our yard from which Sam's tire swing hangs forgotten. Sooner or later I suspect his absence will be noted—already some woman named Clare from the bank has been calling the house—but for now at least, we are safe.
The children do not yet know Chris is gone, only that he is away. In time, it won't matter. They will deal with it with the same resiliency all children employ when they are forced to accept an unkind reality.
I have not yet seen the expected relief on Jenny's face, and to date (four days since I killed her tormentor), she insists that there was never anything awry in the relationship between her
" Gillian... " His face had become a monochrome portrait of horror and disbelief. I recognized that look. Had seen it in the mirror for most of my childhood. "Baby, listen to me...you have to stop. You don’t know what you’re doing."
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
He dragged himself backward with his hands. Patiently, ever-so-slowly, I followed, here and there answering his pleas for mercy, for clarity, with the blade, and by the time I was done, he had made it into the kitchen before the strength to go any further abandoned him.
"Why...?" he managed to ask. Blood continued to spread around him in an ever-widening pool from the dozen or so puncture wounds on his chest, face, arms and legs. With his resistance minimized, I'd managed —admittedly with great difficulty—to sever the tendon on the back of each foot, disabling him just in case the other wounds didn't. "Why did you do this to me? It was a mistake, that's all...that's all it was. A stupid mistake. Please, Gillian, please get help. I'm going to die." He began to sob.
"Yes you are," I told him, and knelt between his legs, felt his blood soak through my jeans. It was warm and unpleasant, but I did not intend to have to endure it long. My hands were shaking violently, my head raging with myriad voices, as I undid the button on his jeans and unzipped him.
"Honey...no... Jesus..." he whined, every word punctuated by a sob. Feebly he tried to resist me, but he was in too much pain, had lost too much blood. He looked like the ghost I intended to make of him.
“Hush now,” I whispered. “Someone will hear.”
He tried to pull away from me as I grabbed his cock and put the edge of the blade beneath his testicles.
I imagine d it impossible that no one heard the resulting scream. But such things were beyond my concern. Only the presence of my children at the door would have prevented me from finishing. At such a young age, they, or Sam at least, should be spared seeing such brutality, no matter how justified and necessary. It might warp them.
When it was done , I left Chris unconscious, fetched some string from the utility drawer and one of the deluxe freezer bags I kept for storing meat from the cabinet over the refrigerator.
It's over now , I thought, with something akin to relief and excitement, as I went to the monster's stricken body, got to my knees, and raised his head just enough to slip the freezer bag over it. Then I looped the string around his neck, cinching tight the edges of the plastic.
Then I stood and studied him.
His breath, slow and uneven, clouded the interior of the bag.
But only for a little while.
TWENTY-ONE
I dream , but I am not asleep.
Instead, life has become the dream.
I am there again, on the hill overlooking Mayberry. At my back are the crosses, driven like stakes through mounds of earth, three of which cover people I have known and lost. Perhaps Chris should be here, but he is in his own place, feeding the walnut tree at the end of our yard from which Sam's tire swing hangs forgotten. Sooner or later I suspect his absence will be noted—already some woman named Clare from the bank has been calling the house—but for now at least, we are safe.
The children do not yet know Chris is gone, only that he is away. In time, it won't matter. They will deal with it with the same resiliency all children employ when they are forced to accept an unkind reality.
I have not yet seen the expected relief on Jenny's face, and to date (four days since I killed her tormentor), she insists that there was never anything awry in the relationship between her
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