What Lies Beneath The Flowerbed

by D. M. Thornton

  Tonight, I’m going back to school. I think I can pass myself off as a college student. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. I glance down at my watch. It’s eight o’clock; any of the frat and sorority parties are well on their way until the wee hours of the morning. I look down at my sad attempt at a slutty college outfit—a loose-fitting teal tank top that shows the lace trim of my black bra paired with a snug fitting black skirt. I found a pair of black sandals in the far corner of my closet that don’t look too horrible with what I slapped together. Look, I can’t wear heels, I’d fall flat on my face, so this is as good as it’s gonna get. I managed to add makeup and contour my face thanks to some YouTube tutorial videos. And I must say, I think I look pretty damn hot. And I’m not one to think of myself as even being average.

  I slip a black cardigan over my shoulders and grab my car keys off the hook by the garage door. In the car, I check my purse to make sure I have everything I need before I back out of the driveway. The thing that really gets me in the mood is my music. There’s nothing like Beethoven’s “Für Elise” to bring my heart rate back to a simple pitter-patter rather than an echoing thump, thump. I crank up the radio and let the notes and chords of the classical piano carry me through the streets of Lawrence until I pull my car over on a side street in the middle of all the frat houses, parking near a house that has a window right off the street.

  There’s a line of kids that I mingle into and follow along, ducking into the front door of the house I parked close to. I wonder how many houses I will need to sneak into to find the one that Mr. Harvarti will visit. I don’t have all night to be going from house to house in search of—well, lift me by the ankles and stick a keg hose in my mouth, he’s schmoozing some dumb freshman twat as we speak. He’s not hard to spot. A troll is always too easy to pluck from the bunch, and he’s as sleazy as they come. His black hair is greased back like a wannabe mobster, which goes along with his bad taste in clothes. Total prep all the way with a maroon and gray striped sweater and matching gray pants. He stinks of old money and bad cologne.

  I casually stroll through the kitchen and prop myself up along the counter, swiping a red Solo cup full of beer from the line of drinks waiting for people to grab. I won’t drink it, but I want to look as if I belong, and I can’t do that without a drink in my hand. When the girl excuses herself to the ladies room, leaving her drink behind for Harvarti to take advantage of, I slip into his line of view. It only takes him a second to notice me, and when he does, he scoots across the bench seat until his arm bumps into mine.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says with a smile.

  I almost barf in my mouth, but manage to keep a straight face...even giving him a slight crooked grin. I attempt a sweet voice when I respond. “It’s no problem.”

  Brian’s hand is balled into a fist, holding the date rape pill, I’m sure, so I set my cup down close enough for him to roofie my drink when I turn my back.

  “I’m Greg,” he says, holding out his free hand. “You are?”

  Well, if we’re using aliases, I give, “Tiffany.” In an attempt to not fully touch him, I graze my fingers to his outreached hand for a flimsy handshake, but he grabs my hand instead, bringing my knuckles to his lips.

  Gag.

  “Very nice to meet you, Tiffany.” The smoothness of his voice prickles my skin, and not in a good way. It’s a fake seductive tone that’s meant to lure in girls who have shit for brains. It might work on them, but I can see right through this asshole’s rape-stained window. “You a freshman?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you around campus.”

  “Transfer. I’m a junior.”

  His head nods. “So, Tiffany, what’s your major?”

  Good God, how do these girls do this? I’d like to punch him in the throat while he’s chugging a beer.

  “Psychology,” I answer. I don’t bother asking what his is, I don’t care. And as he’s about to say something else, I cut him off, knowing what he’s going to ask. “I find the psychotic brain intriguing. I plan to do case studies on the sociopathic and psychopathic minds of criminals.”

  Hmm, that got his attention.

  Brian straightens his torso on the bench seat and folds his fisted hand under his other arm. At first, I think he’s slipped the pill into the rolled-up sleeve of his sweater, but when I hold my finger up and turn to grab a bowl of pretzels off the counter behind me, he’s repositioned himself and is rubbing his palms along the legs of his pants.

  Nervous.

  I set the bowl of pretzels between us and watch him take one with a trembling hand. Perhaps it’s what I said about studying criminally impaired brains, or, I’m going out on a whim here, he just dropped that pill into my drink and is hoping I take a big ol’ swig. So, I bring the cup to my mouth, closing my lips around the rim, and tip the liquid just enough to barely dab my lower lip. Brian’s eyes are glued to my face, watching me intently as I swallow, making it appear as if I’m drinking a couple good solid gulps, then set the cup back down.

  Rohyphol is a very potent drug, and the effects of this so-called date rape drug, or roofie, can happen within the first thirty minutes of digesting it, making someone feel heavily intoxicated, nauseated, dizzy, and sleepy amongst an array of other problems. I have approximately twenty-eight minutes to put on my game face.

  Each quiver of Harvarti’s lip, every tap on the counter with his fingers, when his eyes switch from my cup to my face—I study and tune in to all his mannerisms. They reek of an agitated addict that’s eager to get his high. Me being his high.

  The floozy returns from the bathroom and takes a seat next to Brian on the bench. I’d love nothing more than to lay into her and tell her how fucking stupid she is to leave her drink unattended for a low life scumbag like Harvarti to tamper with it.

  Moron.

  Funny, now that I’m in the picture and it is my drink that’s been messed with, perky tits doesn’t even exist. Not once has Brian remotely glanced in her direction. His focus is directed only at me and my drink. She eventually gets irritated, flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder, and hops off the bench. And still, Brian doesn’t bother turning to look at where she is going, just keeps his eyes on me. “Drink up, doll. You don’t want to drink warm beer,” he finally says.

  I sigh heavy in my head and pretend to take another drink. A wide smile spreads across Brian’s face when he thinks I’m drinking up more of his poison, but little does he know, I’ll be the one drinking up his blood in a matter of hours. And if timing couldn’t have been any better, someone walks by and bumps into Brian’s back, making him swivel in his seat. I take the opportunity to toss the beer out of my cup into the trash that’s at my feet before slamming it down on the counter with a loud, “Ahh.”

  Harvarti’s head snaps back and he looks at me, then leans over enough to look into my empty cup with a smile. I fake a wobble, grabbing hold of the edge of the counter, and giggle. “Oh, feeling a little tipsy.”

  He’s quick to leap off the bench and take my arm, pulling me from the kitchen toward the stairs. That won’t work. If I calculated correctly, I need him to get me to the bedroom at the far corner, which I believe is right off the street...where I have parked my car. I won’t be able to remove him from the house from upstairs. “Let’s find a spot that’s more private. We can nurse your tipsiness in a quiet room.”

  I add a stumble to my walk as I follow alongside him, faking a giggle, and grab his arm to brace myself as I pretend to fall into him. “Oh dear,” I mumble. “I’m not feeling so well. Take me…that room, right there,” I slur, pointing to the last room on the right at the end of the hallway.

  “Upstairs would be much quieter. C’mon, I can help you up there,” he presses.

  Fucktard.

  If I could stab him right here with my needle, I would. He deserves to have that needle plunged in his eyeball, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let this idiot take me upstairs. I can handle my own, but the only way for me to get him out of the house from the second sto
ry is to toss his ass out the window. And I want him alive when we get to the compound.

  “No!” I struggle to pry my arm out of his grasp, putting up a weak mock fight, but Brian has a firm grasp on my elbow. I have no other choice but to faint in hopes that he won’t want to take a chance of someone seeing him carry a girl up the stairs. How he manages to still walk through these parties without being escorted out in a body bag is beyond me. Though, by the looks of it, I’d say ninety-eight percent of the dumbasses here are so shitfaced wasted or high that they don’t even know what’s going on. I go to yank my arm from Brian’s, and add rolling my eyes in the back of my head for dramatics as I let my body go lax, falling to the floor.

  But wouldn’t you know, dipshit actually caught me, and he dragged me to the closest room. The one at the end of the hall, right where I parked my car. Hot damn, I love it when things fall right into place, don’t you? Now, I don’t have much time to finish out my plan. I’m praying Brian hasn’t noticed that once we hit the stairs, I’ve kept my free hand in the pocket of my cardigan. That’s because it’s holding my syringe full of my own special sauce. And tonight, what better way to take this fucker out than with his own club drug? Mine, however, is a bit more potent. Ketamine—it’s quick acting, so a little can go a long way when injected. I want Harvarti unconscious, not dead, and since this drug can cause everything from slurred speech to death, I have to be very careful how much I use.

  My feet are dragging behind me as Brian pulls me into the room. He struggles to get my dead weight to the bed, but manages to toss me on top of the mattress with a grunt. “Fuckin’ heifer,” he grumbles.

  Motherfucker. I’m not skinny, but by golly, I’m not a fucking heifer either. He’s going to regret saying that. Asshole.

  I keep still, my breathing an even, shallow rhythm...waiting. There’s a click from the door being closed then a snap from the lock being positioned into place, followed by the unzipping of Brian’s pants. I don’t dare take a peek to see what the hell he’s doing, but I suspect he’s being a creeper and is just staring at me...jerking off, no doubt. But then there’s a dip in the bed and a hand on my knee. I fight the urge to flinch when he glides his hand up my thigh, up my skirt, and...

  Nope, that’s where it stops. I have one shot, and I take it. In a swift, fluid motion I swing my arm from my pocket and stab the syringe straight into the side of Brian’s neck. My eyes fly open, and I leap from the bed, running to the opposite side of the room. Look, I’m used to my ol’ faithful drug of choice for this kind of stuff, but I wanted to get outside of the little straight and narrow box I live in. I know, I know, it’s not what I do, but there are a lot of things as of late that aren’t part of my character, so I thought, why the fuck not? Be a daredevil. Try something new. And since I wasn’t certain as to what would happen after I injected him, it was best if I stepped back so I could watch.

  That shit works, though. He’s out...well, not fully out. He’s lying on his side, eyes wide open, but absolutely no movement. I take a step closer to make sure I didn’t kill the bastard, but there’s a slight twitch of his shoulder as he breathes. Good, he’s alive. Now all I have to do is get him out through the window. Hmm, this is when I wish I had Jaz. That beast can lift anything, and carrying Brian’s limp body out of a window would be like carrying a sack of manure to the car.

  I stand at his feet and nudge his ugly Penny Loafers. He groans in response, but still no movement. I’m not sure how long this stuff is supposed to last, so I can’t be fartin’ around. I pull some zip ties out of my bra—yes, I stuffed them in there. It’s amazing the things you can think of to slip between the boobies. I begin to place them around Brian’s wrists, but before I loop the plastic end into the lock, I hesitate. Not a good idea...not yet.

  He moans, but all he can do is stare at me. Funny, his eyes are expressive. It’s almost like I can hear what he’s thinking. Just as my research on Ketamine proves, he’s in a dreamlike state, knowing what’s going on around him but unable to move.

  Trippy.

  Taking Brian by the ankles, I yank him from the bed, not stopping when his head bounces off the floor with a heavy thud. I ignore it and his groaning, dropping his feet so I can open the window.

  Fuck.

  The distance didn’t seem so far when I was sitting in the car looking at the house, but now that I have to drag this asswipe across the side yard, oh, I say twenty yards, dread is beginning to spread throughout my shoulders. Well, here we go...

  After having to shift and reconfigure, I finally manage to nearly toss him over the ledge and into the bushes below. Hopping onto the grass, I close the window and wrap my arms underneath Brian’s. I begin dragging him, slowly, across the yard. It’s a cool Kansas night, but I’m sweating nonetheless, and I’m sure at this point I’d be mooning anyone that happens to walk by. Which I pray they don’t. But when things are going so well, it’s only a matter of time before the axis shifts and luck runs dry.

  There’s nowhere to hide from the group of kids walking away from the house, down the sidewalk near my car. I drop Brian’s torso on the grass and straighten my body, propping my hands on my hips. Bending slightly, I begin to pant real hard and start stomping my foot. I have said plenty of times that I spend my days trying to blend in, but tonight, I’m throwing myself out there, and this is no exception. “Get up!” I shout. “I’m not taking care of your drunk ass again, Greg!” I glance out of the corner of my eye and spot one of the guys watching me as I continue to holler at Greg. Turning my gaze toward the group, I engage them, yelling, “Can you believe this? He’s wasted again, and I can’t get him to the car. I guess he’ll be sleeping in the grass tonight!”

  One of the guys breaks from the group and begins jogging up the grass. “Anything we can help with?” he asks.

  Bingo.

  “Actually, yes. If you wouldn’t mind, can you help me get this lush into my car? I’m just right there,” I say, pointing to my car.

  “Hey D, c’mon and help me,” the guy calls out to another member of the group. The kid runs up to us. “Take his feet.”

  I fling back the door to the backseat and direct the guys to lay him down. “He’ll be more comfortable if he’s lying down, and then maybe, this time, he won’t puke in my lap.”

  One of the helpers laughs. “Dude, that’s gross.”

  “There ya go. Have a good night,” the first guy says.

  I thank them profusely and hop into the driver’s seat, turning around to make sure Brian isn’t regaining any of his mobility. Nope, still frozen. I crank up the volume on my radio, using the runs of the piano to drown out the grunts and groans of my victim behind me.

  I don’t have the help of some college guys when I get to the compound, so I have to man up and figure out how I’m going to get Brian inside. After some deliberation, I come to figure that my best bet is the wheelbarrow. It’s a bit of struggle getting him in, but when I do, it’s a helluva lot easier than dragging his sorry ass through the house. Now all I have to manage is my table.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead and guzzle a half bottle of water as I take a breather. Talk about being exhausted—this has been no simple task. Brian might not be a big guy, but he’s all dead weight. And after the hour it has taken me to get him into the wheelbarrow and onto my table, my arms are burning and my breathing is ragged. Fuck, I’m getting a damn workout, but I got his ass on the table, and that is a victory.

  All my tools are set up and ready to go, I’m dressed in my disposable clothes, my music is playing quietly in the background, and Brian is strapped securely with his eyes scurrying in his head. I have to admit, this Ketamine brings a whole new thrill. It’s one thing to watch my victims be wide awake and able to squirm and squeal like the whiny pigs that they are, but knowing that Brian’s mind is functioning while his body is not...well, that’s exciting. He won’t be able to flinch, to fight...to scream, but he will feel every ounce of pain I inflict on him.

  My lips curve up into a
playful grin. Let’s see how expressive his eyes get now.

  I take my scalpel from the tray and walk around the table, putting my face right up to Brian’s...our noses almost touching. “Well, Mr. Harvarti, how does it feel being on the other side for a change? It’s not so fun, is it, being drugged and unable to fight back? Let’s see if you are aware of what’s happening, shall we? Blink once for yes, twice for no. And don’t try lying, Mr. Harvarti, I already know your truth.”

  He’s staring up at me, frightened.

  “Your name is Brian Harvarti.”

  He blinks...once.

  “Your drug of choice is Rohypnol?”

  Once.

  “You rape girls because you can’t get laid on your own, so you have no other choice but to drug them. They can’t say no when they lie limp and lifeless, can they?”

  Twice.

  “Are you telling me you can get laid on your own?”

  He doesn’t blink, just stares.

  “You like to use obscene objects to brutally attack these girls. Whatever will hurt and cause the most damage, is that right?”

  Once.

  “That’s what I thought. Are you scared, Mr. Harvarti?”

  Once.

  “Good. You should be. Now, this is what’s going to happen.” I hold up my scalpel so he can see the shiny blade. “I’m going to make a small incision right along your side here.” I drag my gloved fingernail down his skin, beneath his ribcage. There’s a flinch in his skin that makes my body hum. “Then, I’m going to slip my hands into your stomach and rip your organs free from your body. Doesn’t that sound like some fun?”