1
I don't look away when they die. It's more intimate this way.
Watching them choke on their own blood...
The little gurgling sounds and gasps...
This one's a fighter. Her dark hair dangles off her pillow, soaked in blood, caked against the side of her face. Her eyes are wide in fright, hands straining at the leather cuffs as she attempts to reach for her throat.
"Shhh...." I soothe, brushing my fingers along her cheek. "It'll be over soon." My fingers itch to really touch her skin, to draw comfort from the warmth, but I can't. The gloves are a necessity for obvious reasons.
The hot red river flows from the opening in her neck, draining down to the mattress where a puddle collects, swirls, spews it over the side of the bed. It's all soiled now, but she'll never use it again. Someone will come along and clean this up, replace the carpeting, paint the walls, package up her things, and ship them to a loved one somewhere.
The niggle of anger eats away at my chest, sending a burst of adrenaline, but I take a deep breath. It's mercy, I tell myself. Mercy for me, for my younger self, for everything that happened. The counselor said the angry parts of myself are just the parts that love me. The part that would stand up for someone--anyone else in this situation.
Her eyes flutter shut, then snap open. She gasps. I hover over her, watching her face grow pale. She can't speak; I've made sure of that. Can't have any witnesses. Noise draws attention. But her eyes plead with me, begging for the mercy she should've given me. They all should've given me.
"Shhh...."I say again, this time plucking sticky strands of dark brown hair from her temple and cheek. This is more than she deserves, but I won't be like them.
I won't cause that sort of pain.
I heal the pain. I fix what was wrong and should be right.
I end suffering.
The sunlight is fading now, fingers of light clawing across the crimson scene in front of me. Darkness filters in like a warm blanket, wrapping around my body and bringing with it the only comfort I know now. Well, other than offering myself mercy.
Her body stills, and she stares at the ceiling. For six full minutes her life will replay itself in her brain. I've heard its euphoria, remembering all the good moments in your life that you've lived, things you want to take with you but you cant. But I hope it's not. I hope it's the opposite, a hell of her own making, remembering every horrible thing that's happened, replaying every regret and trauma.
Why not?
I'm not dying, and I do that all day every day.
I turn away now, nothing left for me to see. The blood no longer oozes out. Her body is limp. The catharsis is over, but not really. There's no relief; there never is.
I bend and unclasp the leather from around her wrists and ankles. Untie it from the bed posts. It's not always this way. Sometimes they go quietly in the night. Sometimes at dawn just as they're waking. Sometimes there's a struggle. Sometimes they make noise.
She was different. Special.
The connection we had was... stronger.
I collect my things, draw my fingers over her eyelids. Hang my head.
My feet shuffle across her carpet to the door where I glance back at her in the dying light. It didn't have to end this way. It never had to be this way. But it is.
I'm heavy, moving slowly. I walk on air through the house. It's a nice house. Shame someone else will live in it now. The kitchen is open concept, with a smart refrigerator. I've always wanted one of those.
I wash my tool in the sink, use a little bleach which I find in the cupboard below. The heat of the water seeps through my gloves. It'd feel good against my skin, but I wait. Tonight... I deserve it tonight, after everything today.
The letter on the counter next to the sink says Kelly Yost... Kelly... what a nice name. I don't linger on that for very long. There's no attachment to it. Nothing with which to absorb any of this darkness that's consuming me.
I pack my tool away in my bag, place the leather restraints into the pocket, zip it shut,and hang it from my shoulder. When I step into the dusky fall air, the breeze kisses my skin. It's crisp out. Winter is coming. Death of nature. Darkness. Cold.
No one notices me. There are no cameras. I walk down the sidewalk and turn onto the driveway. It's quiet this evening. Nearing six thirty and no activity. Her neighborhood seems pleasant. I head north. Peel my gloves off, fold them together, stuff them in my pocket.
It'll be dinner time when I get home. Max will have made something, I'm certain. I feel lighter now.
My car is parked in the third spot of the center row at Farmer Jack's. Groceries in the trunk. Doors locked. I stash my bag in the spare tire well and startle when a man in dark clothing approaches me. His eyes stand out against the night sky like omens, but my mind stays calm.
It's always calm.
I don't know how I do it.
"Uh, lady, you can't park here all night."
Farmer Jack's is open until eight. I don't know what his problem is. My car's only been here a few hours.
"Yes, sorry." I smile politely, nod at him. He's not my type.
"You can't just park here and walk off... Customers only."
I'm tempted to open the trunk, show him my purchases, but I say nothing. Dinner is waiting.
I climb in and start my car, feeling exhaustion needle at my body. The kind of exhaustion that comes after feeling heavy emotions. I feel them all the time. There isn't a time I don't feel them. They're there, under the surface, like a molten river waiting to push through.
But the dam stops them every time.
A masquerade, a door shut--things piling up behind it.
Sometimes the smallest thing threatens to open the door.
But I stop it.
I'm a good girl.
Good girls don't do that.
The drive is silent. No radio, no need. My mind replays the scene over and over. The bump in the produce section. Her fake laugh as she apologized. The way she backed away with a dirty look when I said nothing--when I didn't smile back.
I couldn't.
Kelly looks just like her. Looked just like her. Now Kelly is gone.
I stop by McDonald's, roll up to the trash can and toss the gloves, then turn south toward home. Headlights have me narrowing my eyes. I blink. I see crimson again, bubbling out of her neck. She deserved it. They all deserve it. I deserve better.
The lights are on in the house. Max stands over the dinner table with a broad smile on his face. Eva is giggling. Her blonde curls bounce as she shakes her head. He's telling dad jokes again. And Brighton is rolling his eyes. Of course he is. He's thirteen now. Nothing his father says is funny or wise.
They live in a different world than I grew up in. They're happy. It hasn't ruined them yet. It may never ruin them.
I shut the car off and breathe for a second. Focus on each group of muscles as I exhale, releasing tension. The warm smile rolls across my face as I take my purse and keys and get out of the car. Max has seen me. He's walking down the sidewalk with long strides and a welcoming posture.
"Long day?" he asks as he moves straight to the trunk. I pop the trunk before I shut the door.
"Exhausting... And the lines at the store were awful." I join him. We collect the groceries and shut the trunk.
"Dinner's ready, baby. Let me help you relax." He carries most of them. He's like that, doting, patient, loving.
I follow him with stunted strides, hardly synchronized emotions. He's light and fun, adventurous, and youthful. I'm everything he's not. Serious, stodgy, pragmatic, organized...
Organized. Yes.
The injection. The restraints. The incision. The method... Organized is what they'd call me.
"Mommy's home!" Max calls, and the patter of feet follows.
Eva's nine now. I don't know where time went. She was just born yesterday. But yesterday was exactly three thousand three hundred forty-two days ago. How do I know this? Why is this a thing?
"Mommy," she exclaims as she barrels into me, wraps her arms around my waist.
"Okay, okay." I force a chuckle and pry her off my body. Brighton raises an eyebrow as I pass the table and set my bag of groceries on the counter.
Dinner looks delicious, stroganoff and breadsticks. Mas has buttered them and dusted them with garlic powder just the way I like. He knows when I come home late that I've had a hard day, but I'll never tell him why.
"Do I have to eat this crap?" Brighton asks, and I frown at him. He's picking up language at school I don't like him to learn, but I can't shelter him. I can, however, protect him in ways no one ever protected me, and I do. I will. Nothing will touch my children the way I've been touched. The way I've been mutilated.
"Hey, don't talk like that." Max chides our son, and I let him take the lead on it. A boy needs his father. In fact, Bry needs Max so much during dinner, I'm left to stew while I eat, and listen to Eva babble about learning times tables at school, and her best friend Myra's sleepover this weekend. I almost forgot. I make a mental note to remember to wash her sleeping bag.
Max coaches Brighton through some teenagery stuff, and I eat in mostly silence. The chatter drives me inward where I wonder why I feel no emotion at all, no guilt, no pain, no anger anymore. I know how to plastic-smile my way through family moments. I know how I'll feel later, once Max drifts off to sleep.
"I'm going to have a hot bath, if that's okay." I press a kiss to Max's cheek as he stands at the sink handwashing the dishes. Our dishwasher is busted, and middle-income families don't necessarily have extra money lying around for frivolous things like a dishwasher. So Max takes care of things like this for me. His job at the quarry pays him well enough, but my job pays the bills. It's like our roles are reversed, but he doesn't seem to mind.
"Sure, hun. I'll come check on you in a few." His warm eyes relax me. They always have. Like hot springs I can sink into and let the tension melt off my body, they suck me in and tether my heart to a safer time.
"Thanks..." This time the smile isn't fake. I love this man, even though I don't know what love is, or how to give it, or how to feel it.
I choose it.
