Chapter 7 - Continued

 Hello, all... here is a preview of a continuation on chapter seven. a glimpse into the final hours of Alex. I hope you enjoy, and more to come. Editing and new chapters are coming up quickly. bless your little hearts. later ~b

 Chapt. #7 cont'd -

I heard the bathroom's linen closet door open, and it was then a jarring spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist would harmonize to a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains shot through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his clothes swish to the bottom of the hamper. As he removed his wedding ring it hit the floor, 'Cling, clang, cling, cling!' My nerves so piqued at the time, it sounded as though a thunderous clang had echoed against my bathroom walls.

Carefully I peered around the corner and caught Alex trimming his goatee in the bathroom's vanity mirror. Once I realized how close he really was, my breath became shallow and quickened. As I slowly shifted myself back toward the wall, Alex turned on the shower and then returned his gaze to the vanity mirror inspecting his aged complexion. A soft rush of plunging droplets hit the porcelain tub, and filled the room with a light cloud of steam and a calming hush of cascading water funneled through the drain. The moist air consumed the bathroom's sparse space within seconds and its wetness pierced my then distressed lungs.

I tried to focus on my next seemingly impossible task, as I attempted to tighten my clammy palms around the knife's slippery rubber grip. Fear had struck a lightning bolt of trepidation through me and left me frozen in a momentary spell of panic. I attempted to hush my quickened breaths. Then it just happened, once I tightened my grip on the knife's handle I hastily lunged forward. Abruptly I hit the adjacent wall jarring my naked body and then suddenly, before I knew it...there I was, directly in his view.

Once Alex looked over at me, he appeared baffled with his bushy untamed eyebrows angled upward with a toothbrush hanging from the side of his mouth. You'd think, at that very moment, my bare quivering frame would have made me feel the most vulnerable I had ever felt. However, at that moment, it was in fact my fear of failure. My fear of failing a task that could not be abandoned. My reluctant leap that thrust me forward, revealed my truest intentions...there was no turning back.

We stood amongst the steamy bathroom fog that was gradually lifting as I intently stared into his eyes. When his eyes stared back into mine, I could sense their disbelief and betrayal; I recognized the look because I had felt the same for far too long. At that very moment, I had not expected my sentiment to be sheer joy yet it enraptured me. It made me feel like I had lost all control, and yet there I stood, proudly grinning.

He stood before me, mouth agape, when I hastily lunged forward cutting the thick air with the blade's razor sharp tip. Only my momentary hesitation gave him time to react as he continued to leap back from my failed attempts. Foolishly, I had abandoned my original plan to attack from behind,and for that I would pay the price.

He began to yell as I watched him jump back from the knife's edge, “What the fuck are you doing, Mira? You really think you are going to get away with this?!”

I didn't answer him, I continued to lunge forward with wide desperate swings, my arms wildly flailed, and my body quickly advanced toward his. With a pitiful sense of determination, he spat his toothbrush onto the floor and stood obstinately before the knife's point as it thrust straight toward his rotund gut. Impulsively, he grabbed the blade with both of his hands, cinching the blade with the meaty flesh of his bare palms. Blood began to drip from his grasp as he stood clasping its edge. His gaze shifted to the wall directly behind me, his eyes rolled back and seemed to touch the back of his brain. With his teeth tightly clenched, his eyes swiftly widened with a furious rancor. Instantly, he was a man who had become completely unhinged.

With his teeth clenched and bursts of mint scented saliva spewing from his lips, he finally met his eyes with mine when he said, “You sick twisted bitch, is this how you are planning on killing me? You better have something better planned than just a knife. You've got to be kidding me! You think you're gonna be the new sheriff in town now?! Is that why you want to get rid of me?! You got it licked around here, you dumb bitch!”

I continued to struggle as I attempted to tear the knife's razor sharp blade from his grasp. As the blood continued to pour from his wounds, his ferocious tenacity shocked me. Certainly by now his palm's searing lacerations were unbearably painful, but despite the pain he continued with incantations of profanity; all while grasping that blade. There seemed to be no sight of his waving white flag.

With his unflinching eyes, and his relentless grasp he pulled me closer toward him and said, “You think this hurts me, you bitch? You just wait till I put it straight through your stomach?! I will gut you like a pig! You are nothing but a pig. A dirty rotten pig! You got that?!”

Just then I noticed at the base of the knife, just above where his hands were clasped, his blood oozed and pooled along the grip like a thick burgundy jelly. The blood gradually pushed up between his fingers, dripped between his hairy toes and slowly pooled onto the floor beneath him.

For what seemed like several minutes, I watched him struggle to keep his foothold; and I knew at all costs he could not wrestle the knife free. Oddly, the sheer might of his grasp and his masochistic tug o' war with the knife's blade seemed to aid my endeavor. Without much warning, his upper body began to shift as his feet awkwardly shifted beneath him. Violently he fell to the floor, both knees simultaneously smacking the hard surface of the slick bathroom floor. A deafening crack followed as his knees met the unforgiving surface, 'Crackkk! Crackkkkk!'. Then in what seemed like a millisecond, he had pulled himself to his feet by the surface of the blade. He jolted upward miraculously regaining his foothold on the blood drenched bathmat.

Then with every last ounce of might I had within my upper body, I struggled to pull his body toward mine. Unknowingly, a steady stream of tears had begun to flow down my cheeks and onto my moist breasts. My body seemed to violently shake with either fury or determination. It was a sensation I will never fully understand, but I knew it was a fight I could not lose despite how vulnerable I appeared. With both my arms and upper body trembling with exhaustion, I continued to thrust myself backward against the force of his grip. Somehow, I had managed to pull him closer despite the consuming weariness I felt in all my muscles and joints. I think what I felt was a mix of exhaustion and pure adrenaline coursing through every ounce of blood.

To my surprise, at that moment I was struck with an unfathomable courage, my voice rendered a wavering inflection as my eyes stared directly into his.

My face merely inches from his own, when I said, “You were never the sheriff in town, you were never anything but a coward. Payback is a stone cold bitch and she's here to collect.”

My words seemed to incense him when he released one hand and frantically swung his fist toward my left temple; all futile attempts that appeared to leave him drained as his breaths swiftly became hastened. I cocked my head backwards to avoid his swings, making sure never to release my grip.

I can only imagine what happened next to be a surge of unmitigated madness masked with surreal joy. I craned my head backward and bellowed out laughter that seemed to erupt from the very tips of my toes. I continued to pull him toward me and then for reasons I cannot explain, during a completely unreasonable moment, I closed my eyes.

With my eyes tightly clasped, I saw in my mind's eye, an image of my Grandfather, Antonio; I hadn't seen him since he passed, nearly ten years ago. Yet, he was an image that appeared so real to me that day, one that seemed I could smell and touch. As he drew closer to me, I could see the worn pattern of his tweed jacket, the hard lines of his face and the smell of his sweet pipe tobacco that wafted by on a subtle breeze. He approached me with his hand outreached and gently placed it on mine.

Where I stood was a serene meadow on what seemed like a spring day; like something out of a magazine. I didn't recognize the place, but for the time I felt safe. When he approached he sat with me on a tree stump amongst a field of lavender and grain, a billowing willow tree sat on the horizon about a hundred feet to our left. We sat peacefully for a few moments. Today I cannot recall what it was we spoke of but I remember watching him smile so wide, his crow's feet nearly touched the tips of his ears. I simply kissed the hand he placed on mine, and we sat and enjoyed the intoxicating smells of lavender and berry.

Abruptly, there was a shift in the air, any sound that may have naturally occurred in such a place was hushed by a crescendo of moans that seemed to be drawing near and then grew to a deafening growl. I saw the worry in my grandfather's eyes, and instantly his eyes and touch made me feel like a small child as we embraced. The sound emanated from the horizon, where the beautiful billowing willow tree stood serenading our scenery. Sadly its beauty was slowly being consumed by a foreboding cloud, right before our eyes... until there was nothing left but a black void.

The darkness grew quickly and continued to grow, drawing closer to where we sat as lines of thick charcoal infiltrated the field's grain. The black melted along the horizon like thick wax streaming along a slanted picture frame; until we could only see hints of bright gold where the grain once was.

A deep unsettling sound then averted our eyes to the sky as a flock of birds emerged from where the willow tree once sat. As they flew overhead, their wings harmonized an ominous tone, 'Woooooosh Woooooooosh Woooooooosh'. As their wings cut through the clear blue sky, instantly their path turned a swampy grey. In a state of disbelief, again we both watched the gaping blackness consume the hillside.

He looked at me and said, “Mira, do you see that stream just beyond the hill?”

He pointed to a stream beyond a long decrepit stone wall that was speckled with glistening flecks of slate; a stone wall that seemed to dissect the land from a pasture of green hills with a mirror like stream running through it that reflected the midday sun.

Despite how he insisted, I found it harder to concentrate on anything but the looming blackness that drew closer as we spoke. He grabbed both of my arms and looked me in the eyes as I simply stared back at him in disbelief. With a distinct degree of urgency he shook me to awaken me from my trance. It seemed so real, those images, and the blackness on the horizon left me feeling helpless. 

 

With no response from me, he began to raise his voice when he said, “Now you listen to me and answer me when I ask you something, girl! Do you see that stream beyond the wall?”

The wind blew harder, stray debris and lumps of grass began to kick up and swirl madly until they snapped in our faces, making the conditions even harder to ignore.

He continued to insist, “DO YOU HEAR ME?!”

I finally replied, “Yes, grandpa yes! I hear you Jesus Christ! What is it already?!”

He scolded me for taking the Lord's name in vain and then lifted his boney liver spotted hand to point where the blackness grew.

He said, “Never mind that stream for a moment, we've wasted too much time. You see that evil over there on the hill? It's only there if you want it to be. It's only there because that's what you want to see, Mira. Stop this now, be brave!”

I nodded and he continued, “God showed you this place today, not me. I believe he wants you to see and feel what peace you can and should have. I have no regrets but for wishing I had more moments to spare; like right now. Don't live with regrets, Mira. It's time for you to go and move on from this.”

I replied, “I know grandpa, I'm just scared. What happens if I fail? I'm afraid of failing this and then I fail my children, I can't go to prison over this!”

He shook my body, when he grappled with my trembling arms then looked me in the eyes when he shouted, “NOW STOP THIS! YOU CAN DO THIS! YOU MUST DO THIS!”

I began to assure him, “Ok, I know, you're right...”

He interrupted, “Shutup and listen, girl. I told you we don't have much time, and I got more to say!”

So I did, finally I just listened, and momentarily the growls seemed to cease. I finally stood and listened, as I took in the sweet berry scented tobacco that clung to the air around us; a smell I remembered from childhood. A smell that always reminded me of him when I was lucky enough to enjoy the warmth of its familiarity.

He said, “Now Mira, you see that stream beyond the rocks?”

Finally, I replied, “Yes, Grandpa, I see it.”

The he said through a smile and slight chuckle as he turned his eyes toward the stream, “That's where I spend most of my days, and fish for as long as I please. That's where I sit for hours remembering the days with my family, our family, wishing I had enjoyed every moment I was granted; only a hundred times more. If that's even possible, because I loved my life. We made great stories together. Make great stories now, Mira. Let this go.”

He continued with a reassuring tone, “Get rid of the evil, Mira. You will not regret it, and someday...when you need me, I will be right there, by the river. But for now, you finish this. Be a brave girl.”

He released my arms and nodded at me with approval, and that's when I turned to walk from him. As I walked away, I turned back to look at him just one more time. I smiled at him as he stood in that field with a trailing blackness behind him; briefly he waved me on and then folded his arms gently rubbing the scuffed leather patches on the elbows of his worn suit coat. As I continued to walk down the meadow's path, wisps of long grass and grain tickled my ankles. It was then I felt as though I left behind all guilt and regret; I left it behind in that meadow along with the murky gaping void.

Abruptly, with my next step, it felt as though the birds above had plummeted from the sky when I was sheathed amongst their unsettling familiar sound I heard moments before, 'Wooooooosh! Wooooooosh! Woooooooooooooooosh!'. I felt like I was falling when my eyes fell blank and the distant growls dissipated into a swirling breeze. Swiftly, as though not a second had passed, there I stood... in my bathroom, struggling with that knife. In fact, my eyes were still set on the ceiling above.

Quickly, I snapped my head down to gain my bearings, and stared directly at my husband and grunted as I pulled his body toward mine with the knife's slippery grip. 

 

Desperately, I struggled to bring his body closer to mine. As I pulled the louder I groaned, 'Arrrrrr, Ahhhhhhhhh, Arrahhhhhh, Ahhhhhhhhhhh!'

My feet began to slip when the slick underside of the bathmat began to shift against the damp floor. Yet, I continued to insist and pulled him closer as his thick maroon blood drenched the rug beneath. An earthy smell of sweat and blood clung to the moist air that beaded along my arms and chest. I knew I had pulled him as close as he would come, and between us the bathroom's thick fog had dissipated only briefly; enough for me to look straight through him and absorbed trembling fear through his grasp.

I managed to pull him a few inches closer when I whispered in his ear, “And now it's time for you to go.”

Then I released the knife's grip.

I watched as he plummeted backwards with great force, head first on the wall across from the bathroom door. His relentless fortitude in grasping for that knife's edge aided his ultimate loss. Then I stood on the blood drenched bath mat, with dried blood spatter on my shins and ankles staring over at his slouched frame. As the moist bathroom fog continued to lift from the space between us, I drew closer to study his helpless state. His head was slouched forward onto his chest and the very tip of his inadequate penis peered up at me, like a very sad little face.

Standing over him, I lurched my hand upward and swiftly brought it down slapping him across the face leaving a distinct red mark in the shape of my fingers and palm. I laughed at the sound and the sight of the impression on his cheek. Then I pried the knife's blade from his ground chuck palms, and washed it clean of blood under the running shower head. With my blade clean I walked back over to Alex and placed its shiny edge just beneath his nose, when an opaque steam spread along the blade's surface. Of course he was still alive, surely a little bump to the head wasn't going to rid me of my monster.

Completely exhausted I reluctantly dropped the knife to my feet. I could have easily slit his throat as he laid there defenseless, but I felt there was no sport in that. I yearned to watch the last drop of life funnel through his eyes. Much like droplets of water cling to a spider's intricately woven web, then slowly dissipate till there is nothing left but white. Truly, now it was only the anticipation that kept the task exciting. It was my plan to let him rest, because in the morning we would spend more time together.

I leaned down far enough to kiss the blistering palm mark on his face, when I said, “Tomorrow we will have our own secret accord, darling. But I'll make it look like an accident. You rest up, sweetheart. ”

With what seemed like a hastened jolt to shake the pain from his heavy eyes, Alex awoke from unconsciousness at approximately 0600 hours. Alex stiffened his body amongst a downy comforter encased with a blood encrusted thick black refuse bag. Frantically, he looked down at the moistened bloody bag that clung to his skin. When he attempted to lunge forward the clang of handcuffs rattled against the headboard's frame and lightly chaffed his fattened wrist. With his free hand he grasped what little hair remained along his receding hair line desperately scanning the room.

I sat in the far corner of the room, far enough out of his reach and barely within his view. He continued to struggle, attempting to release his arm as he winced in pain. While he was unconscious, I had dressed the deep wounds on his hands, but surely the pain was overwhelming as he had lost considerable blood. Then He turned his free palm toward his face and brought the gauze covered wound to his mouth and clenched a free strand with his teeth, in an attempt to expose his wounded hand.

Instantly he froze when I said, “I wouldn't take that off if I were you. It's a pretty deep cut, and really you should have stitches. The dried blood and bandage is the only thing stopping the blood flow...well, for now. You really messed up your hands, moron.”

He jerked his head to the corner of the room where I sat, with his right eye peering as far as it could without bulging from his skull. As he tried to lunge forward, a metallic thunder caught him when the chains quickly snapped him back to where he sat. 

Chapter 7 – freedom urn

“There saw I how the secret felon wrought,
And treason labouring in the traitor's thought,
And midwife Time the ripened plot to murder brought.” - Geoffrey Chaucer, 'The Canterbury Tales'

As I drove home that night, I lingered in deep thought, a kind of deep thought that brings you to another place. An unknown realm of sorts that makes you feel briefly disconnected. The quiet hum of the radio distracted me; yet a subtle hush of white noise seeped from my window seducing sleep. I struggled to fend off tired eyes as I slouched in my bucket seat entranced by what seemed like a ballet of pterodactyl sized bugs fluttering along the golden beams of light. Dreadfully weary when I finally arrived home, yet relieved, despite my requisite bunk mate...well, just for one last night.

Once I pulled my car in the driveway, I pulled the key from the ignition and sat staring at my house wondering what horror awaited me behind the front door. I shifted my eyes to the rear view mirror, to briefly distract myself with the two sleepy angels in my back seat. For a few brief moments, I sat and relished in the sentiment of solace that came with the kind of memories I planned to build with them.

In fact, as the days drew closer to Alex's murder, I found that I would daydream often about our new days ahead. Days that would surely be filled with the likes of peace and ice cream. Several celebratory rounds of copious ice cream, served up with giant spoons, in our living room, on our pristine cream carpet. Creamy drops of ice cream would fall from their spoons without consequence. Only to be complemented by the joyful sounds of giggling lips covered in chocolate sprinkles; no more slaps or screams.

 

As I ascended the stairs leading my sleepy boys to bed, I noticed Alex sitting in the chair situated in the center of our living room with his feet propped on the furry looking ottoman. He did not speak a word to me when I walked through the door. I only caught him in my peripheral vision as he hastily sipped his beer, as though it distracted him from other thoughts. He lifted the bottle to his lips sucking back the brew; then followed up with an obnoxious squeal as his lips released the mouth of the bottle.

Having known Alex, these actions were deliberate, with his attempt at an affected cool refrain. Outwardly he wanted to create the illusion that he didn't care, as though he was unaffected and unmoved by my presence. As though his cruel tactics of harassment and torture had not consumed him daily. Tactics that somehow made him feel better about himself; in lieu of how truly pitiful his life had become.

That night I sat on the edge of Anthony's bed and brushed back wisps of chestnut hair from his face as my fingertips lightly grazed his soft alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. This was my secret ploy to steal a few moments away. A ploy that would not go unnoticed for long. That night I was nearly certain Alex had cultivated a “charming” mood prior to my arrival. A fine cultivation at that, one that was surely nurtured with the likes of ample beer consumption and not to mention his inclination for being a complete and total asshole.

Without my being too obvious, and that being my lack of haste checking with Alex as he stewed over God knows what, I made my way to the living room. Like a toddler Alex sat silently crying for attention, as he though his outward manifestations were unclear and somehow lost in translation. People with the most dulled sensibilities could easily make out the teetering chip on his shoulder; a resounding bold chip that had made its permanent residency some time ago and flatly refused resignation.

During his short stay with us, he would continuously attend to an inflated sense of entitlement that could devour innocent passerby's with its consuming fog. God forbid there were forgotten dishes, forgotten laundry, or worst a forgotten phone call. Luckily, I was no longer concerned with fixing things. Now I tolerated his boyish antics...for the time being. Unfortunately for him, that limited time offer had expired.

After stealing away a few moments, I softly tiptoed across Anthony's floor maneuvering with calculated footsteps to avoid a nerve wracking floor creek, a sudden mishap with a wayward toy or an unfortunate slice from the five inch knife stuck in my shoe. Certainly, by now its blade had shredded the sole of my sneaker. Standing in Anthony's doorway I slowly pulled the door toward me leaving just a crack of light for his night time navigation.

Before I made my way to the living room, an unexpected rush of excitement came over me when suddenly the knife's cool blade pierced the side of my foot. It was a subtle yet unmistakable sting of pain. Now with deliberate, careful movements it became more evident just how real the situation had become.  That night, I stood inches from the man I intended to tear open with the very knife that now pierced the tender underside of my foot.

Its razor-sharp edge served as a reminder that this was, in fact, the end; the end of my journey, the end of a monster. This moment unnaturally aroused me, in that I delighted in its stinging pain and the blood stains it left in its wake. It was an unusual rush of excitement that one cannot say is felt all too often, the kind of ethereal excitement you remember as a child on Christmas morning. Only a darker more macabre type fan fare.

Much to my surprise, that night Alex hadn't stored up his usual artillery of complaints. His intention was to simply relay his usual indifference and to keep the status quo of resounding hatred looming in the foreground. Within the murky culverts of his simple mind lived a devouring animosity, his choice tool used to manipulate and an attempt to conjure fear. This was not love, it could never be love, his belief in love was a twisted sad testament to love.

When I walked into the room where he sat, I stood leaning against the couch for a moment simply awaiting a response.

After being ignored for a few moments, I said, “Well, it was a long day, I'm going to hit the sack. You staying up for a while?”

Without averting his eyes from the TV he replied, “Yeah, I'll be in bed in a bit, just going to watch the rest of the news.”

Shockingly, that night my sleep was not disturbed by restlessness and the next day I was able to remain focused on the tasks at hand. Since I had rarely enjoyed a leisurely weekend, it was important that I not enjoy a restful Saturday.

The misogynistic, old fashioned semantics of life had not alluded Alex. He felt the woman should clean the house and the man should enjoy the fruits of her labor. Unfortunately, any concept of hard work always managed to allude him. That morning Alex woke up around 10 a.m. and announced he was 'making a trip to the market for a few things'.

When I asked him to bring the kids he scoffed and put up a fuss, and I for that I knew his ulterior motive was to stop at the bar for a quick pop -bloody mary-. I preferred he hadn't since the tab was ultimately paid with my funds. More importantly, that particular day he shouldn't be allowed a drop of booze. His sobriety was important, important to me, as sobriety would ensure he remembered every second of terror I planned to inflict. I wanted badly for him to suffer as I watched his last thread of life unravel.

Once Alex left with the boys, I staged the necessary props for our evening out. I went to our closet and carefully reviewed my collection of slinky dresses, and then hung one seductive red mini dress on the top of the bedroom door. My red kitten heels stood at the ready, near the base of our bed. From my modest jewelry collection, I placed some sparse baubles on my night stand.

That evening's relentless bitter irony was that I planned to wear nothing, it would make for easier clean up that way. This was simply a masquerade intended to deceive. A staged costume party without a guest to speak of and ultimately a gravely poor outcome.

Aside from my staging  props, that Saturday morning would turn out rather unremarkable; like most spent while living with Alex. I tidied up the house and took occasional breaks to tend to the children. After having lunch with my mother and having left the children in her care, I called La Dolce Vita, a charming Italian eatery, and made dinner reservations.

The most merciful sort of axe men would allow their accused one last meal, however that day I hadn't felt an ounce of mercy. Alex would be rendered lifeless before one spoonful could touch his lips. In fact, in just a few short hours, he would lay gasping and clinging to life on the cool surface of our tiled bathroom floor.

I thought the bathroom was the easiest and most convenient spot to hide the knife and to wash up immediately after. The night before, I hid the murder weapon in my night stand drawer, where I also stored my reprehensible collection of vibrating dongs and dildos. Some would assume this to be the first place he may nose around. Although, I knew full well that Alex would never look where I kept my treats of risqué pleasures. The utter mention of a vibrating rabbit or the like would expeditiously depreciate his sense of manhood to the ranks of prepubescent boyhood.

Admittedly, the past few years I had continued to accumulate a small collection simply to incense him; that is until I discovered one sadly abused plastic toy cut square in half with a pair of garden sheers. Certainly his boyish intention was to upset me, however, the result was uproarious hysterical laughter until my stomach ached and my head began to pound from lack of air. My only regret was the waste of such a precious resource.

After retrieving the knife from my delinquent drawer, I placed it in between the pages of an old Newsweek that rested atop my toilet's tank. I could count on him not turning the pages of an informative magazine. Alex garnered his political awareness from talk radio and the internet. He would then pontificate on his vast array of knowledge with banal blog posts. His writing was utterly void of originality and were merely regurgitated editorial columns he claimed to be his own.

That afternoon Alex sat in his office undoubtedly catching up on riveting commentary posted to his blog. Coincidentally, I refused to become a “follower” of his work. Otherwise, I would have endured a painful hailstorm of emails when he would author one of his varied "magnum opuses". His idea of civilized discourse would begin as expected and always somehow end with expletives sprinkled on top; especially if a woman chose to engage him. He was truly a moron adorning a mask of intelligence, but the only person invited to this allusive costume party was him.

I sat in the living room listening to the clack of typing, his fingers flying over the keyboard, in all likelihood conjuring up a scathing reply to some unsuspecting follower. In the living room, I sat staring at the pages of a random book cradled in my trembling hands, occasionally turning a page. Admittedly, all my faculties were consumed with his every move. Merely minutes before my planned attack I struggled to find the courage to follow through with my plan.

Alex brought home a six pack from the market and had begun drinking around 3 p.m. I was somewhat disappointed, in that I wanted him to experience a certain degree of terror just as he had inflicted upon me over the past few years. I wanted so badly for him to feel the worst pain he had ever felt without the benefit of dulled senses. I tried to focus on the positive and that was his early afternoon buzz would inhibit his response time and leave him clueless as to what was coming.

During his last few unremarkable moments, I could have walked into his office and beat the rotten piss out of his face with a baseball bat; he would have never seen it coming. I had contemplated doing just that, that would have been far more gratifying. I delighted in a parade of images that pranced through my mind, exposing his skull bone and brain matter with the relentless swings of a smart Louisville Slugger. Although, the likelihood of him recovering from a pierced spine was far less. Therefore, I smartly decided to go with the knife -a sure bet- or so I thought.

At approximately 6:15 p.m. Alex walked into the kitchen to grab a chilled beer from the freezer. The hiss of carbonation pierced the silence of the room followed by a sharp ping of the bottle cap hitting the tiled floor as it missed the garbage. I sat and listened to him chug a few sips and then bellow a loud resounding belch.

With a cavalier unscathed air about him he waltzed into the room where I sat, wearing nothing but undersized boxer shorts and his black unshaven chest exposed bearing an odd likeliness to a thickly woven hideous bathroom rug.

As an abridged burp continued to reverberate from his lips he said, “I'm gonna hop in the shower soon so we can head out for dinner.”

With that short quip he then made his way back to the office to finish whatever garbage he was spouting off online. It was then I took those few moments to position myself for the final act. It was unfortunate for him, during those final moments that he hadn't posted a farewell blog. Surely his death would pique the interest of several since half the mail he received was hate mail. A tragic kind of suicide to fuel the respective twitting twits of the world, at least for a week or two. Although, severing your own spine would be a difficult feat to accomplish. Alas, his spiteful blog minions had unknowingly read his final blog entry and would receive their last scathing reply.

As he sat in his office typing and belching up remnants of lunch, quietly I tiptoed to the bathroom. I hid myself behind a wall where the toilet was situated. The toilet is partitioned from the remainder of the bathroom and it was there I crouched waiting... I had already removed my clothes and placed them in the linen closet.

My bare buttocks were quickly numbed by the floor's frigid surface. My nerves tingled and a subtle tremor traveled across the surface of my then goose pimpled skin as shivers ran through my body igniting every nerve. I pushed my back squarely against the bathroom wall, slightly propping myself midair, brushed against the beaded moisture of the toilet's tank then dripping onto my naked skin.

I pushed back as far as possible into the corner, then rest my head inside my cupped hands; intently listening and waiting on his next move. I only prayed he wouldn't need to use the toilet before he showered. Nervously I sat trembling with nothing to focus on but for the blank wall before me. After a few moments I lifted the knife from its resting spot and placed it on my knee and studied the orange glistening serrations that reflected settling beams of the sunset peaking through the window above.

Suddenly the bathroom's linen closet door opened, and it was then a jarring spasm strummed my spine much like a prickly handed harpist would harmonize with a grisly orchestra of sorts. The distinct pains shot through me and froze me cold and listless as I listened to his clothes swish into the hamper. 'Cling, clang, cling, cling!' as he removed his wedding ring it had fallen to the floor. My nerves so piqued at the time, it sounded as though a resounding boom had echoed against my bathroom walls. 

 

Chapter 6 - It only hurts when I breath.

Chapter 6....it only hurts when I breath.

“What can be more soothing, at once to a man's Pride, and to his Conscience, than the conviction that, in taking vengeance on his enemies for injustice done him, he has simply to do them justice in return?” - Edgar Allen Poe

The next morning during my ride to work, I sat stoic as the train thrust its way through Boston's subterranean cavernous maze. Just feet above, along the streets of Boston, a bounty of asphalt and rugged cobblestones endured a brigade of footfalls as pedestrians braved the likes of kamikaze cab drivers and dared to step from their respective curbs.

That day I was oblivious to the coarse friction of disharmonious chatter which ordinarily clanged chaotically against the train's dense steel walls. Most days, a muffled mass of discord would pervade and awake my every sense, but that day it was merely a hushed whisper in the foreground.

If you were to ask me how I appeared to most that day, I'm not entirely certain. I would imagine transparent with the vapidness of a child's puppet with a dangling cascade of strings. Clearly my mind had traveled into the unknown. Outwardly, surely it appeared I was absent. Somehow I had managed my own of astral travel of sorts; at least that's how I felt.

As my frame jostled in time with the heaving underground terrain, I sat entranced by the deceitful plans that consumed me. An overwhelming tingle of numbness embraced me; seemingly a legion of pinpricks could have grazed my skin with the slightest of ease. 

 

I would have quickly volunteered the excuse that I was simply overtired. The truth would surely disturb most, and that was the elaborate web of alibis and deceit which entangled my every waking thought. The tactics I would execute consumed my mind, that is...my careful plan of murder. Planning the days that would lead up to my husband's final gasps for air. These fateful days he had unwittingly mapped out for himself.

After having seen several women suffer from the distasteful service of lukewarm justice, I could not bear to unleash the cancerous lesion that is Alex unto amass of unwitting singles. The only chance for a scintilla of hope, was to stomp out what scarce light remained in his dimly lit spirit.

Sitting across from me on the train that morning was an elderly couple. The woman, a slight framed feeble looking woman, who wore a threadbare knee length plaid woolen skirt. Her hair a deep gray, loosely held back from her face with intricate looking turquoise barrettes. Cheap plastic jewelry was draped over her aged parched skin.

She peered at the cement walls that were covered with thick patches of black mold occasionally interrupted by flashing signs and numbered lights that swished past her view; her eyes briefly shifted back to meet her husbands. After a few moments she shifted her gaze back to the dim scenery, and sat completely unaware that her husband sat gazing at her face.

With his cracked aged forefinger, he slowly circled a thin gold band she wore, circling it slowly around her nearly transparent skin. So slowly, as though he were afraid she would break with the slightest of touch. His movements were deliberate as though he held the most precious of flowers cradled in his hands. Worried that the slightest movement could cause its petals to fall and its beauty to forever dissipate from the world.

His feeble long aged fingers grazed the top of her hand that he held in his own, as he looked down at their clasped hands he simply smiled to himself. He looked up and studied his surroundings with a deep sigh of contentment exuding from his lips. As though you could hear the joy rushing slowly from his lips. The old man finally glanced over at me, feeling my eyes on him, and once our eyes had finally met he slowly nodded his head and smiled so wide one could swear his face may split in two. His face beamed with joy and it showed in the corners of his smile and the brightness of his eyes.

That day, amidst the ugliness of a dirty train, directly across from me sat the epitome of enduring love. Witnessing their exchange was something akin to watching caramel drip through the curves of a twisted decanter. A rare yet unique event indeed. I believe God had purposely placed me there, right at that moment, right in that precise seat, so I could to see what was to come, or what could be. For that moment, I would always be truly grateful.

It was then I knew that I could have peace....someday. Perhaps a lifelong love? But for now, I coddled the hope of a new day; hope, such an elusive concept for some. Luckily, I had not lost sight of my hope, it felt only a few short breaths away.

That morning's train ride rekindled my fading spirits, until the stinging bite of reality interrupted once I arrived at work. That is, once I listened to a voice mail from late Friday afternoon.

A sweet twangy voice jangled through my earpiece, it was Victoria our station's victim witness advocate, she resonated an unexpected chipper tone when she had what most would consider the most detestable job at the station, “Hey Officer Chiatti, It's Victoria Smalls, just thought I'd report back to you about my recent chats with Gina Steenley and how that's been coming along. Basically, I haven't been able to reach her for the past three weeks and Ron's hearing is coming up next week. I have a feeling she is going to clam up on this one. Perhaps the prosecutor should try and reach her on this one before the trial? Call me later when you get a chance. K? Bye-bye!”

Holy Shit, Tori, skip a cup of coffee or two. Damn girl. Then again, I guess it was a nice way to get my daily dose of bad news. That morning I called the prosecutor, Michael Armstrong, to fill him in on Steenley case. What was happening or I should say what wasn't happening with the case. As expected his voice mail kicked in...such is the life of an overworked prosecutor. The most overburdened, underpaid public servant known to mankind.

With a morose tone I left Mike the unfortunate details, and that he should expect the spousal immunity card to be thrown his way any day now. That is, spouses cannot be forced to testify against one another. Every day until the hearing I would follow up on the Steenley case. My messages became more and more insistent, as the date inched closer. I never did receive a return call from Michael, but I would have my chance to speak with him at the hearing.

As the days passed, my anger grew. I felt oddly invested and spiteful for yet another victim falling prey to the clutches of yet another deceitful predator...and on my watch. That's all these people were to me, predators who simply did not deserve the deals they were dealt.

The morning of the hearing, my palms moist with what seemed like an endless cascade of sweat, I walked beneath the court's ornate vestibule embellished with phony gold plated ornaments clinging to images of justice with the likes of gavels and balanced scales. The metal detector's nerve-wracking pings reverberated through its lofty corridors assassinating the nerves of each passerby. Court room assignments were posted on a tattered cork-board, uniquely out of place for a building with such delusory grandeur. The respective schedules were pinned amongst a graveyard of stapled remnants with shards of hastily ripped paper;

'Commonwealth v. Steenley: Courtoom 4: 8:00 AM : Justice M. Scalia.'

As you walked through the thick wooden doors of any one courtroom, you would leave the behind the world of cool marble sheen and enter one spacious blank unremarkable space. Where hopeless panic stricken faces lined a tier of benches. Loved ones clung to the knee or hand of their “wrongfully accused” as the briefcase toting lawyers sat crouched behind the bar to exchange insignificant details; callously indifferent to the dreary mood that filled the room like a deep fog.

With a temporary restraining order still in place, Gina and Ron obediently put on a show for onlookers, as they sat as far apart as possible in such a close space. The truth is, they had resumed living together weeks ago. I glanced over at Gina, dressed in her Sunday best, and as my eyes met hers she shamefully averted eye contact and looked down into herself. She exuded a desire to dissipate, much like a wisp of steam.

Despite Gina's obvious discomfort, I continued to glare in her direction as I made my way across the courtroom toward the prosecutor's desk. I knew what she had done, and I knew she was letting him back in, before I even had the chance to find out for myself. A few short steps before I approached their desk, the coarse smell of freshly print paper and cheap cologne assaulted my face; as a team of prosecutors swarmed like a chaotically papered flash mob. A line of lawyers and police officers patiently awaited the attention of one of these newly swarming bees.

When I came to the front of the line, Mr. Armstrong looked up at me while alternating eye contact between his file and my face, and dismissively said, “Oh, Hi there Officer Chiatti. How are you? You know, I meant to call you. Yeah, real sorry about that. I was kinda working on a deal for the Steenley case. So you know? I wasn't quite sure what to tell you. But we just finalized the deal this morning with Ron. We won't be needing your testimony today. You have a great day though.”

And that was that. There was nothing I could do. The deal was done. Instantly, a hot rush of anger welled up inside of me as it bubbled up from the deepest pit of my gut and ascended toward the ranks of my forehead and temples. My complexion assuredly beamed a scarlet red as I became enraptured with an overwhelming sense of unmitigated rage.

As I turned and began to make my way down an ugly depleted grey rug, I shot my glance toward Ron Steenley, who sat in the far rear left hand corner of the courtroom proudly displaying his cocky grin. He stared directly at me as he brought his right hand to his forehead and gestured a half assed salute while subtly nodding his head. He was letting me know he had in fact, won this round.

Without Gina's testimony to back up her former statement, there was little to no chance that a jury would convict a man without any corroboration from the accuser. Ron cut a deal and was on probation for a year with a ninety day suspended sentence and was ordered to attend anger management classes at his cost. Unfortunately, as we later discovered, a cost borne by Gina as well. His criminal charge didn't just disappear, this certainly wasn't an acquittal and for that Gina had to pay the price. This whole ordeal would always be her fault and that could never change. Ever.

Within two weeks of the hearing, Victoria would follow up at the Steenley home, since we were certain they resumed living together; and the restraining order was in fact dismissed. But when Tori arrived at the Steenley home, Gina only partially opened the door and sheepishly peeked around its frame. Despite Tori's persistent efforts she was not allowed in the home but as a silent cry for help, Gina slowly revealed her entire face. Her face so engorged with blood it appeared as though she had strapped a blood sausage along the left side of her face, with a fluttering eye just beneath its casing.

Gina's employer later reported, she had been calling out of work that entire week, and now we knew why. Victoria claimed that as she stood in the hallway quietly talking to Gina, when Ron discovered who was at his door, he quickly became hostile and rushed to slam the door in her face. After she had seen her in this condition, Tori later called Gina and urged her to file a complaint with the PD, and she flatly refused.

Unfortunately, for Ron he would be attending a funeral only two short months from that very date. Once I had my chance to kill him. For now, he would play his cynical game of torture. For now... for this very short time.

Over the next few weeks I focused on my tasks at hand rather than allowing anger and rage to consume my every waking moment. Before I completely lost my mind, I knew my first order of business was Alex. I knew I could not truly help anyone else until I helped myself. I was in desperate need of peaceful solitude, and if it could not be my home then where could it be?

The day after Gina's hearing I started making calls to plan my last night with my husband. My children would need a place to stay that night; a place with more humble on goings than the likes of police lights and congealing pools of thick blood.

I could always count on my mother, and after a few short rings to her phone that morning, she answered with her usual chipper tone, “Hello! Hey, I was going to call you last night. I'm glad you called. I was going to ask if your father and I could come by for a visit this weekend.”

I replied, “Of course, actually mom I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, what's up?” she replied.

I said,“Alex got a new job.”

She replied, “Really, well that's good.”

I continued, “Yeah, it is good, mom. So I was thinking about taking him out to celebrate this weekend. Could you watch the kids at your place Saturday night? That would be a great.”

We quickly discussed plans to bring the children to the park for the day, catch some lunch and then of course she would quickly ran through a list of special activities she planned for later that evening. This would include smores making fan fare, living room forts, and who could pass up a rousing mess making spell of finger paint? Most assuredly more wholesome activities than what I had planned.

After I hung up with my mother, I scrolled up to “Ann” and pressed send. Ann was a good friend of mine who lived up in New Hampshire with her boyfriend, Dan. I had been meaning to pay her a visit and since I was overdue, I was praying she didn't have plans for Friday night. The reason for my spontaneous visit was two-fold. First I had to visit my friend to uncover some refreshed inspiration. There was perhaps no one on the planet who loathed Alex more than I had. While I could not divulge my plan, she would surely provide me with a fresh dose of gumption. 

 

My second reason, aside from the fresh New England air and a free home cooked meal, I knew there was a rather impressive collection of hunting gear in a special room just beneath her kitchen. A hunting room where her boyfriend, Dan, assigned well appointed pegs for his collection of avid huntsmen gear. An array of muskets, crossbows and buck knives littered that wall. A wall I planned to visit that evening. Certainly I couldn't buy myself a weapon. My service revolver was out of the question. Unbeknownst to him, Dan was my librarian of mass destruction. I would simply borrow something...with the intent to return.

As Ann's ringtone resonated through my ear,I realized in all likelihood, she was rounding up her brood of children for school. Briefly it made me think of my own kids and that soon enough I would have to ensure they were safely off to school. Since my unemployed husband would very shortly, no longer be around. As expected I had to leave a voice mail, and asked if the boys and I could come up for a visit that Friday night. Later that afternoon she returned my call and responded with an enthusiastic yes. I welcomed the solace of Friday night. The calm before the storm.

That morning when I arrived at work Jay was sitting at our desk. He was unusually early for our shift. I approached him to ask what brought him in so early.

Jay nervously replied, “I don't have time to chat right now, Mira. I have twenty minutes to get this done. I should've been here a goddamned hour ago. My stupid alarm clock didn't go off like it was supposed to. I set the damn thing, but can you believe it? Some asshole blew the service to our whole building.”

He continued, “ I talked to his girlfriend and she told me he was trying to get an amp to work with his new guitar. I guess he got the bright idea to cut the ground adapter on his amp to lessen the 'feedback'. Course needless to say, he forgot about his soaking wet rug from their all nighter keg party. The damn fool, the shock sent him sailing clear across the room.”

Jay continued with a slight chuckle, “His girlfriend called the ambulance. I guess he had some pretty bad burns and passed out too. What an ass, huh? Turns out he'll be fine, but what a goofball? Anyway, Mira I got to finish this report or it's my ass.”

Briefly I watched him looming over the keyboard, hunting and pecking at it with his thick stodgy fingers.

I took pity on him and said, “Scoot over, get up.“

He looked up at me with a surprised look of confusion.

I said, “Scoot over dummy, we don't have all day! You are never going to finish this in twenty minutes typing like that. Tell me what you need to write here. Just kneel down next to me.”

I nudged him out of the seat with my hand, in an attempt to be inconspicuous, yet with a certain sense of urgency.

As I took his seat, I hastily handed him a piece of paper from our outbox and said, “Take this report from last week and pretend like you are talking to me about it. You know, use your hands and stuff, play it up a bit, but talk softly; not too softly, hell you know what I mean. Just point a little at the paper and tell me what you need me to type here. We don't need anyone knowing I am typing your report for you. You don't need anyone giving you shit.”

As he slowly knelt down beside me with his goofy dumbfounded face, he looked up at me and with a sincere humble tone he said, “Thanks a lot, Mira. Thanks a lot. You really are saving my ass today.”

I replied, “No worries my friend. Someday I may need a favor from you. Anyway, you'd do the same for me, right?”

Jay nodded and business resumed as usual. No need to dwell on his embarrassing typing skills and last minute planning. Our workday went rather smooth without much incident, no arrests, just a few traffic stops and lunch. It was a nice segue for me, since I had a rather busy weekend ahead.

The following night, the children and I would visit Ann in New Hampshire. That evening when I arrived home, Alex was already off to his brother's house, since his bike was missing when I arrived. As expected, when I discovered his absence, the resident invisible two hundred pound weight evaporated from my shoulders. Thankfully, this meant less opportunity for an argument or uncomfortable forced friendly conversation.

 

Prior to leaving that night, I found a note bearing Alex's nearly illegible chicken scratch. It read, 'Off to my bro's house. See you later tonight, sweet cheeks. Love You!' At the bottom of his gut wrenching note, I scribbled, 'love you too.' The whole sickening exercise made me want to vomit but I would leave it there...for later. Conveniently. So family may see, but more importantly the police.

Later once I arrived at Ann's house, she came out to help me carry in some groceries I had bought on the way. As we walked into her house, she called me an asshole for being late, and it was as though we had picked up right where we left off. We had been friends for several years, and for us it always felt as though not a moment had passed. Ann is an attractive woman not mainly due to her outward appearance, but for the carefree demeanor she embraced. A woman who assumed a resolute and courageous spirit, a woman who laughed loud and often.

Truth is some could not tolerate her boisterous nature and shunned her before truly giving her a chance. With the slippery sheen of snake-like politician, she had a bold opinion for all things she believed true and just; all things from which sheepish souls would scramble as she sat squarely in your face. Together we were not for the faint of heart, as we both clutched life with the tenacity and heart of a lion.

After our enjoyable dinner consumed with sporadic outbursts of laughter and the clanging of our Merlot filled glasses, we made our way to her back porch as the children settled in with full tummies in front of the TV. We sat under the pink sunset that looked like fluffs of cotton candy melting from the sky, as the cool sting of the fall air settled on our shoulders and face. We sat under a canopy of bare trees; hearing nothing but the melodious hum of crickets and bugs looming in the thick of the green grass. 

 

After she had inhaled her nightly dose of weed, she sat in her dulled state of lucidity as she shared with me what had been going on the past few months. For a spell we shared what we had missed. She continued on about report cards, teenaged angst, the ex, baseball...the usual suspects. I carried on about my two until our respective scorecards were relatively even. Once the mosquitoes and bugs had begun their descent, and our trusty citronella candles were extinguished to their very nubs, Ann headed indoors.

As she collected her things, and wrapped her tattered shawl around her thin awkward shoulders she said, “See you inside bitch face. This shit is too cold and buggy for me.”

I said, “Be there in a minute. Just a few more minutes to myself, it's so quiet out here. Don't get this in the city.”

When she left me, I sat still in the brisk fall night, patiently waiting to ensure my trek to Dan's hunting room would go virtually unnoticed. As it was vitally important not to be noticed or heard. I left my seat and descended the badly rotting staircase which led to the back door of her basement. Close by were overfilled garbage cans stationed squarely amongst a graveyard of rain drenched beer boxes. As a waft of garbage smell and the pungent odor of mildew struck my face, I gently placed my ear against the frame of the door and listened for a few brief moments. Once I was certain I heard nothing I entered the house. 

Once I made my way to Dan's hunting room, I quickly surveyed my surroundings only to discover a haphazard cave of manliness. In front of me, there was a workbench littered with taxidermy tools, empty plates bearing remnants of rotting food and half empty bottles of cheap booze. A true man cave of sorts. As a collection of vapid expressionless stuffed creatures stared back at me with their deep ebony plastic sheen eyes, a spine-tingling chill fluttered down my left arm. Despite the overwhelming desire to leave, I hastily surveyed the weapons that clung to the pegboard. 

The blueish glow of the dangling harsh fluorescent light, filled the room with an unnatural hue making all the weapons seem that much more surreal. A grand serrated buck knife gleamed at the far right corner of the board, it's dark shimmer illuminated almost a violet tone. Its long handle bore plastic strips, to make it better for gripping. I drew closer to the weapon that gleamed in the light, as I studied it I could see my reflection staring back at me. I drew it closer to my eye to study the fine succession of serrations as I ran my forefinger along its side. I was certain this was the one. Oh yes, this was the knife.

The very knife I would lunge into my husband's neck like a finely cooked pork roast only to rip out spaghetti like shards of tendons from the base of his spine. I grabbed the knife from its peg, and later that night  I left Ann's home with two sleepy children and one very sharp fucking knife neatly tucked inside my Nike.