rocked from side to side. “Why do you believe she’s dead?”
Don gulped, unable to understand the incompetence of this woman. What the fuck was wrong with her? Didn’t she know what dead meant?
“She has no pulse,” Don said, moving away from the wheelchair.
“Oh Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she whispered, clucking her tongue. “Tsk… tsk… tsk.”
“Should I take you to her?”
“What for? Let God handle it.”
“But—” he began. “You have to convince the paramedics or cops that my wife had nothing to do with it.”
“Did she try to kill your wife?”
“I don’t know what happened in there. That’s what we gotta find out.”
“Oh, Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she murmured again. She turned to look at Don, and this time her face exploded with blood. It spilled over her forehead in gushing rivulets. He was hitting her over the head with the wrench he hid in his pocket.
What the fuck was wrong with me? Oh my God, what was I doing?
His hand came down over and over, clutching the steel bar tightly. Blood spattered on his shirt.
No witnesses, son. There can be no witnesses.
Hanna’s mother wasn’t dead nor was she dying. She was shrieking with laughter, doubling up belly over. Phlegm came out of her throat like a backwash, splashing and dribbling on her clothes and soiling the fabric.
“Don’t you know what’s in the hole?” she screeched in a high-pitched crescendo. “Don’t you?”
“What—what’s in the hole?” he screamed back, pounding her face in. It caved in; one eye staring blearily, damaged and turning bloodshot, her mouth leered from her hag-like face.
“Don’t you? Don’t you…”
After it was all said and done, Don dragged the wheelchair into the apartment’s restroom. He turned on the faucet. The water in the bathtub hissed and gurgled, filling up the acrylic interior. As the irrigation rose above ankle height, Don pulled Hanna’s mother off the chair and dumped her inside the tub. Her heavy body rolled and an arm smacked the outer edge. She sank to the bottom as the flood of water rushed near her head, cascading her hair like a limp brush.
Don shut off the valves and watched the blood sluice with inky texture. The entire bathtub full of water was turning from pink to scarlet red. He tugged the shower curtains closed; he was spared from the view of the corpse in the water.
He washed himself in the sink, slathering his forearms and face with soap. He rinsed under the splashing current. He stared in the mirror, observing his hollow cheek and gaunt eyes. The man looking back wasn’t him—it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t a monster; he had never killed another human being until now. Was he a monster? No, he wasn’t. No, he fucking wasn’t!
Then why are you cleaning up after yourself, Don? Only a person with premeditation would do such a thing.
“Shut up—shut the fuck up,” he growled, staring at his reflection. What had come over him? He slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it. Jagged shards of aluminum glass tinkered down, cutting his knuckles. He breathed onerously, slapping himself across the face. “Wake up, man, wake the hell up.”
He checked his pocket and felt the wrench there, matted with stringy, ticklish hair. He pulled the implement out and ran it under the streaming water. The showerhead came on in the bathtub stall.
Don’s eyes skated to the shower curtains again. The water rushing out of the bathtub spout was suddenly coming out of the overhead nozzle. Had she moved? Was she still alive?
Don held his breath. He reached out, gripped the yellow vinyl, and drew the curtains open. The light in the restroom slanted downward, lighting up the dead woman, revealing the corpse still reclined in the same position, an arm angled over the tub. He let out a watery breath of air and turned off the faucet.
The last of the water trickled as his shoulders went limp, head hung, and the tightened muscles in his back and neck loosened. He walked over to
Don gulped, unable to understand the incompetence of this woman. What the fuck was wrong with her? Didn’t she know what dead meant?
“She has no pulse,” Don said, moving away from the wheelchair.
“Oh Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she whispered, clucking her tongue. “Tsk… tsk… tsk.”
“Should I take you to her?”
“What for? Let God handle it.”
“But—” he began. “You have to convince the paramedics or cops that my wife had nothing to do with it.”
“Did she try to kill your wife?”
“I don’t know what happened in there. That’s what we gotta find out.”
“Oh, Hanna, Hanna, Hanna,” she murmured again. She turned to look at Don, and this time her face exploded with blood. It spilled over her forehead in gushing rivulets. He was hitting her over the head with the wrench he hid in his pocket.
What the fuck was wrong with me? Oh my God, what was I doing?
His hand came down over and over, clutching the steel bar tightly. Blood spattered on his shirt.
No witnesses, son. There can be no witnesses.
Hanna’s mother wasn’t dead nor was she dying. She was shrieking with laughter, doubling up belly over. Phlegm came out of her throat like a backwash, splashing and dribbling on her clothes and soiling the fabric.
“Don’t you know what’s in the hole?” she screeched in a high-pitched crescendo. “Don’t you?”
“What—what’s in the hole?” he screamed back, pounding her face in. It caved in; one eye staring blearily, damaged and turning bloodshot, her mouth leered from her hag-like face.
“Don’t you? Don’t you…”
After it was all said and done, Don dragged the wheelchair into the apartment’s restroom. He turned on the faucet. The water in the bathtub hissed and gurgled, filling up the acrylic interior. As the irrigation rose above ankle height, Don pulled Hanna’s mother off the chair and dumped her inside the tub. Her heavy body rolled and an arm smacked the outer edge. She sank to the bottom as the flood of water rushed near her head, cascading her hair like a limp brush.
Don shut off the valves and watched the blood sluice with inky texture. The entire bathtub full of water was turning from pink to scarlet red. He tugged the shower curtains closed; he was spared from the view of the corpse in the water.
He washed himself in the sink, slathering his forearms and face with soap. He rinsed under the splashing current. He stared in the mirror, observing his hollow cheek and gaunt eyes. The man looking back wasn’t him—it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t a monster; he had never killed another human being until now. Was he a monster? No, he wasn’t. No, he fucking wasn’t!
Then why are you cleaning up after yourself, Don? Only a person with premeditation would do such a thing.
“Shut up—shut the fuck up,” he growled, staring at his reflection. What had come over him? He slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it. Jagged shards of aluminum glass tinkered down, cutting his knuckles. He breathed onerously, slapping himself across the face. “Wake up, man, wake the hell up.”
He checked his pocket and felt the wrench there, matted with stringy, ticklish hair. He pulled the implement out and ran it under the streaming water. The showerhead came on in the bathtub stall.
Don’s eyes skated to the shower curtains again. The water rushing out of the bathtub spout was suddenly coming out of the overhead nozzle. Had she moved? Was she still alive?
Don held his breath. He reached out, gripped the yellow vinyl, and drew the curtains open. The light in the restroom slanted downward, lighting up the dead woman, revealing the corpse still reclined in the same position, an arm angled over the tub. He let out a watery breath of air and turned off the faucet.
The last of the water trickled as his shoulders went limp, head hung, and the tightened muscles in his back and neck loosened. He walked over to
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