by Amy Cross
"This is for the pills," I say, marching quickly into the room.
"Say what?" he replies, glancing up from his laptop. "Pills?"
"This is for the pills," I say again, holding the knife behind my back, "and the bullshit and the lies and the looks and everything. But most of all, it's for those fucking pills you forced down my throat. Every last fucking one of them. How many were there? It's been more than a decade, so how many of those dirty little things did you slip into my food? Thousands?"
Closing the lid of his laptop, he stares at me with a confused look on his face, almost as if this is the first he's heard of any anger that I might be feeling. "Come and sit down," he says. "If there's something you want to talk about -"
"I don't want to talk," I say, hurrying around the sofa and kneeling behind him, before pulling out the knife and reaching over his shoulders. "You deserve this," I continue, holding him down. "You deserve every second of pain and fear that you're going to feel. I fell for your little trick with the pills for a hell of a long time, but now it's over, okay? No more. Just be glad that this is going to be quick, because if I could figure out a way to make you suffer the way I suffered, I'd do it in a flash." With that, I slice his neck open; this time, I make sure to see the blood flowing from the wound, and I hold his shoulders firmly to make sure he can't get up. He struggles a little, but the brain injury has clearly slowed his reflexes. When he tries to stand up, I pull him back down, and finally his body goes limp. I wait a moment longer, and this time it's definitely over. He's dead.
"Fuck you," I say, throwing the knife across the room and sitting back on the floor. My heart is racing, but at least I know I've finished the job. "Fuck you," I whisper. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck -"
"Juliet?"
I look up, to find him looking at me with a puzzled expression. There's no blood, no wound, no sign of trauma at all; he's staring at me blankly, as if he's merely confused.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "You seem troubled."
Getting to my feet, I back away, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. There's simply no way he can possibly be alive, yet I can't deny what I'm seeing. Twice in the past hour, he's managed to completely cheat death, and it's as if he hasn't even noticed what I've been doing.
"You're dead," I say, my voice starting to falter. "I killed you..."
"Excuse me?"
"You're dead!" I shout, immediately feeling embarrassed for losing my temper. "You're dead," I say again, a little more calmly. "I saw you die. I saw the blood."
"Okay," he says. "Perhaps you should sit down, and we'll talk about this."
I shake my head. "No talking. I'm done talking."
"Juliet," he says, getting to his feet and walking around the sofa, "I'm worried about you. Something's clearly not right. If you won't talk to me -"
"Don't touch me!" I shout, moving away from him. "Don't come any closer!"
He stands in silence, staring at me.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" I scream, feeling as if I'm losing all control. "Why won't you die?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, looking genuinely confused.
"I killed you!" I scream, as tears start rolling down my face. "I killed you twice! Why are you still standing there?" I look over at the knife, which is still on the floor after I threw it across the room; this time, however, I realize that there's no blood on the blade. In fact, there's no blood anywhere in the room, despite the fact that I cut my father's throat just a couple of minutes ago.
"Okay," he says, walking to the coffee table and picking up his mobile phone. "I'm going to call an ambulance," he explains, speaking slowly and carefully, as if he's talking to an idiot. "Someone's going to come and help you, Juliet. I think you need -"
"No!" I shout, lunging at him and pushing him down onto the sofa. The phone falls from his hand, as I pin him under me. "I don't need any more of your help!" I scream as I slam my elbow into his face, breaking his nose with a heavy crunch. "Just stop it!" I grab his laptop, turn it onto its side, and then slam the corner into his eye, crushing part of the socket. Filled with a kind of anger I've never felt before, I smash the laptop against his head again and again, each time feeling more and more of his skull start to break. Eventually I stop and throw the laptop aside, and I look down at his bloody, crushed face. Frankly, I can't even recognize him anymore: the entirety of his skull from his forehead down to his mouth has caved in, and the damage is so severe that I can actually see parts of his brain sticking out from the gaps. I keep my eyes focused on him, terrified that if I look away for even a moment, he'll go back to normal.
"Fuck you," I mutter, finally turning and climbing off him.
"Juliet?" he asks.
I don't need to look back at him. I already know what's happened. He's back to life again, as if he's become completely unkillable. "What do I have to do?" I ask, as tears continue to roll down my cheeks. "Just tell me what's happening?"
"You seem upset," he continues, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Is something bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?"
I shake my head, feeling as if I'm completely helpless. In the space of half an hour, I've stabbed him in the head, and I've cut his throat, and I've bashed his face in, and each time he seems to just spring back to life. It's as if there's some new law, some new piece of logic, that says I can't kill him. "What else can I try?" I ask, burying my head in my hands. "I don't have a gun. What else is there? Electrocution? Gas? Maybe I should go and get the pills and shove them all down your damn throat until you -"
Suddenly something clicks in the back of my mind. It's as if there was this fog that I hadn't even noticed, but now it's gone. I feel strangely calm and clear, as if I understand everything.
I remember what happened.
I remember what I did.
"Oh," I say, my bottom lip trembling. Finally, I turn and see that there's no sign of my father. I'm alone in the room, and it all makes sense. It's so simple, and so easy. How the hell did I manage to keep the memory suppressed for so long? How did I manage to not realize what was happening?
Feeling strangely tired, I walk out of the lounge and through to the kitchen. My mind has gone completely blank: all I can think about is that I have to go and take a look. After all these years, I have to face up to what I've done. It takes me a few minutes to find the torch that my father used to keep in one of the drawers, but eventually I unlock the back door and head out into the garden. I go around to the side of the house and stand by the woodshed. Finally, I switch the torch on and shine it into the space between the shed and the main part of the house.
There he is.
My father's dead body.
Just bones now, in a heap. Right where I left him after I killed him eleven years ago.
Chapter Six
Eleven years ago
"Sorry about this," I say, as I carry the dead cat across the garden. The maggots have really started to swarm all over the remaining flesh, as if they can sense that something's wrong. Their nice, comfortable world is about to be completely destroyed, but I suppose they've had a good life up until now. They've had a week to chew their way through the cat's corpse, and maggots probably don't have a very good perception of time, so I guess they won't be too upset. Besides, they might be just fine once I've buried them. For all I know, they'll be happier down there under the soil.
Kneeling next to the little hole I dug, I lower the box down, placing it next to the boxes containing the seagull and the hedgehog. The maggots are already starting to wriggle between the boxes: white maggots and yellow maggots are intermingling, and I can't help but wonder whether they'll be friendly toward each other. There's a part of me that think it would be a shame to not witness this final part of the experiment, but I know I can't risk incurring any more of Mr. Harriman's anger. Sighing, I take the little shovel and start pushing soil back into the hole. Soon the corpses are completely covered, and within a couple of minutes the hole is filled.
"Go
od luck," I say quietly, imagining the maggots getting used to their new home in the dark. It must be so strange for them, but I don't blame myself. They'll just have to learn to adapt.
Standing up, I head back over to the woodshed. There are plenty of big, fat flies buzzing around and crawling over the walls, which makes me think that they're suspicious. I've already prepared a big bucket of water and bleach, so all I have to do is make sure the area is soaked. After all, Mr. Harriman himself said that this should be enough, so I figure the flies will give up living around here, and there won't be any more problems. The bucket is heavy, but I manage to lift it up and pour it all over the area where the boxes were being stored. I step back as the bleach solution runs across the path and into the flower-bed. I guess the flowers are going to die now, but that seems like a small price to pay. Once the bucket is empty, I set it down and admire my work.
Just as I'm about to turn and go inside, however, I stop dead in my tracks. Something's wrong. I can't shake this feeling that maybe I've forgotten something. Looking back at the woodshed, I can't help but notice that the flies are still buzzing around the gap between the back of the shed itself, and the wall of the house. If I didn't know better, I'd say that there's something behind there. Setting the bucket down, I walk back across the river of bleach until I'm standing right next to the woodshed. There are flies everywhere, and I have to brush one from my face every few seconds. Buzzing all around me, they seem to be particularly agitated. I assumed they were attracted by the corpses of the animals, but now I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's something I'm missing. Is it possible that I'm overlooking another corpse?
Scrunching up my nose in an attempt to avoid the stench, I slowly peer behind the woodshed, and I immediately see it: there's something down on the ground, wedged into the narrow space, covered in flies and maggots. I blink a couple of times, trying to rouse my blank mind so that I can perhaps remember what's happening, but it's no use: I feel as if there's some kind of fog all around my brain. I should know what's happening here, but I don't. All I can do is stare at what seems to be some kind of large creature, rotting away and providing sustenance for a whole eco-system of bugs. There are so many maggots, swarming all over the mass of organic matter, that I can't really get a good view of the creature, but it's clearly something large. My first thought is that maybe it's several animals, all bundled together; I grab an old tomato cane from nearby and hold it out, using the tip to push some of the maggots away. It takes a moment, since the squirming pile seems to be several inches deep in some places.
Suddenly I realize what I'm looking at: a human face, most of its skin and flesh having been eaten away, with maggots crawling in and out of the wide-open mouth. Looking further down the body, I spot a hand sticking out from under the mass of maggots; with the fingers slightly curled over, it's almost as if the dead body is reaching up for help. Based on the studies of dead animals that I've conducted recently, I think this corpse must be something like a week old, although I suppose humans might rot differently to other creatures. Either way, it's clear that this is the cause of a lot of the stench around the yard, and I can't possibly leave it like this. The last thing I need is for Mr. Harriman to come poking about and find a full dead human. At the same time, I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do: should I bury the body, or just try to get rid of the maggots?
Heading back inside with the bucket, I fill it up with some more diluted bleach before going back into the yard. Taking off my shoes and socks in order to keep them dry, I walk through the river of bleach until I reach the woodshed. I pause for a moment, feeling as if I really don't want to see any more of the body; eventually, however, I feel a little braver and I throw the water over the corpse. The maggots are immediately washed off and down onto the ground, leaving the dead body fully exposed. I want to look away, but I force myself to stare at the corpse. There's not much flesh left, with the maggots having had something of a feast; in particular, the eyeballs have been completely consumed, but there's still some hair on top of the head, while the body appears to be wearing clothes. It looks to be a man, although I can't tell for certain, and there's something strange about the lips of the open mouth, almost as if they've been sealed shut and then sliced open with a knife.
I keep staring at the corpse, not even allowing myself to blink. When my mother died, I wanted so badly to have her corpse; I wanted to watch her and study her, and learn how her body rotted. That opportunity was taken away from me by my father, who chose to burn her to ashes instead. Now, though, I seem to have been given a perfect chance to watch a different human body as it degrades. It's not my mother, but whoever it is, I'm sure I can learn a lot if I keep a log of my observations. Then again, there's the problem of Mr. Harriman: there's no way he'll just keep quiet if the flies are still buzzing around, so I have to come up with some kind of plan. At least for now, I seem to have a temporary solution: the bleach has deterred the flies from landing on the corpse, so I can do this for a few days until I decide what to do. Ultimately, though, I'm certain of only one thing: there's no way I want to just abandon this body, especially when it seems to have landed so fortuitously in my lap. I have no idea who it is, or where it came from, but I feel as if it would be totally wrong to not take full advantage. Turning and hurrying to the back door, I grab the old tarpaulin that's usually used to cover the barbecue, and I drag it around to the woodshed. It takes a few minutes to get it fitted properly over the dead body, but finally it's in place and I'm confident that my secret will be kept for at least another day or two. Sighing, I realize that my heart is racing.
Feeling a strange sensation on my feet, I look down and see that my bare feet are right in the middle of a patch of maggots. The creatures are crawling all over, and between, my toes; it feels really odd, but kind of fun. It's as if the maggots, having been washed away from their previous home, are desperate to find somewhere else to live. After a moment, I step aside before brushing the last of them away. I feel sorry for them, squirming in the bleach, but there's nothing I can do. It's not as if I can pick them up and transport them to some other, more suitable habitat. All I can do is notice that they're alive, and mourn them when they're dead; that's certainly a lot more than most people would do, so I figure I'm not being a bad person. I tried having a pet maggot once before, and my father flushed it away; to be honest, maggots aren't really meant to be pets, so it's probably a good idea to stop being so silly.
Picking up the bucket, along with my shoes and socks, I turn and walk back to the house. I feel as if I need to wash my feet, and then I need to go online and work out what to do about the body behind the woodshed. My mind still feels slightly strange, as if I'm forgetting something important, but right now I'm going to focus on the tasks at hand. There'll be time later to worry about the future; there are so many things I have to do at the moment, I'm worried my brain will start to swell. I guess these things will get easier as I get older, but as I walk into the kitchen, something strange happens: I notice that the light changes, as if suddenly it's gone from morning to late afternoon. Checking the clock, I see that it's almost 5pm, which means I've just lost most of the day. I turn and look out at the garden, and it's clear that the shadows are getting longer as the sun sets. This kind of thing has been happening more and more, as if I'm losing whole chunks of time. Still, I suppose it doesn't really matter too much; it's not as if anything bad seems to be happening during the missing moments. In fact, it's almost as if I'm acting normally during those periods, even if I can't remember them later. Glancing over at the table, I notice that the letters has vanished. I check in the bin, and see that I appear to have opened the mail. Then again, maybe my father was the one who did that, even though I don't think he's home yet.
"Hey," he says, suddenly walking through the door.
"Did you open the mail?" I ask him.
"Of course," he replies, going over to the fridge. "Why wouldn't I?" He takes out a pack of burgers. "So, who's going to cook tonight? You or me
?"
Chapter Seven
Today
"I drugged him," I say, sitting in one of the chairs in the rec room of the abandoned ward. "Eleven years ago, I drugged him, and then I forced the entire bottle of pills down his throat. By the time he woke up and tried to vomit, I'd also managed to superglue his mouth shut. I'd got some superglue as part of a model kit. I wasn't sure it'd be strong enough, but it was. He struggled, but there was nothing he could do. I just sat and watched on the floor of the lounge. When he was dead, I dragged him out into the garden. It was late, so there was no danger of anyone seeing me. I hid him behind the woodshed, just like I hit Gizmo's body a few weeks earlier. And then I went back into the house, and forgot. It was my proudest moment, and I just let it sink to the depths of my mind. Ever since then, I've imagined he was still alive, but I've been living alone. We didn't have any other family, and I managed to avoid attracting attention. I still went to school and stuff like that, and I managed to access his online banking and transfer money from his savings account to his checking account. I didn't need much money, and he'd saved quite a lot so... I guess I was kind of lucky, and as the years went past, I just kept on not remembering what I'd done."
Sitting next to me, Jennifer Mathis waits for me to continue. When she realizes I'm finished, she puts a hand on my shoulder. "How do you feel?" she asks eventually.
I stare straight ahead. "I feel... stupid."
"Stupid?"
I nod. "How did I manage to trick myself for so long? How did I manage to not notice that my own father wasn't even there? I mean, I saw him, and he seemed to be going about his life as usual. He talked about going to work, and he talked about all the usual crap he was getting on with. He even talked about how he wanted me to change and become a more 'normal' girl. How did I not realize that I was imagining everything he said to me?"
