As Fate Would Have It

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  Well, it was official. He wasn’t just a murderer, he was a REAL MURDERER.

  More craziness to ensue? Not if he could help it.

  Because this was it, for real, and to prove it he was going to dispose of Ashley’s body without carving a single piece of edible flesh from her frame. He was going to lie to Liz, keep it to himself and then work on bringing her around to his way of thinking.

  Speaking of Liz, time was short and there was much to be done. If she found out he had murdered another woman she was going to come unglued. Worse, if she found out he murdered without giving her the idiotic experience she thought she wanted she was going to explode. Even worse, if she found out he was disposing of a body without first butchering it and saving the meat she was going to rage.

  Work then.

  Montgomery grabbed a few large, black plastic trash bags from the garage and got to it. He shoved all of Ashley’s clothing and personal effects into one of the bags, took it out back and set it ablaze in the metal trashcan.

  Next he took the soiled bath towel from Ashley’s body and covered her face. Enough was enough. He had done what he promised himself and looked her dead in the eyes before killing her and then even took it one step further and looked into those hazy, milky things after her death. His debt had been paid, his stare a sign of respect offered for all those he had killed before.

  Even with the towel in place Montgomery felt uncomfortable, as if Ashley’s dead gaze was boring straight through and demanding more. He could imagine them vying for his attention and seeping discontentment into his soul. It’s never enough, they hissed, never, ever enough. Which was probably true, but Montgomery was ready to move on and let the past die. It was fitting that Ashley reminded him so much of victim number one. Things had come full circle and it was a perfect place to make a clean break.

  He ran back to the garage and dug out a hacksaw. When he got back to Ashley, he left the towel in place (despite those pleading eyes beneath) and worked the saw through her rope bonds. After she was free, he stripped down to his underwear, took his slightly soiled (but mostly unstained) clothes to his bedroom closet, returned to the bathroom, kneeled on the tub’s rim, placed one hand on her toweled head, and then began pushing and pulling the saw through her neck with the other. Blood flooded and streamed ribbons of red over her naked body. When he hit bone he ramped up the effort until he cut through. The remaining flesh, the nape of her neck, came apart in two or three easy motions.

  Unceremoniously (he had enough ritual for one evening) he threw Ashley’s head, towel and all, into one of the plastic garbage bags and then got to work dismembering the rest of the corpse. When all that remained in the tub was a torso, Montgomery took the plastic bagged head, arms (cut into three pieces each) and legs (cut into four pieces each) to the garage and, after a labored struggle with the acid barrel’s tightly sealed lid, deposited them into the mucky corrosive.

  While working on the torso Montgomery was struck with an idea. Primal visions of warriors and the displacement of power danced behind his eyes.

  Perhaps there was time (and enough patience) for one last ritual.

  With his Wusthof, he worked carefully to extract Ashley’s heart from its meaty cradle. He took the organ to the kitchen (mindful of dripping blood) and put it on a plate and then returned to the bathroom where he continued hacking around bone until the torso had been broken down into a series of manageable pieces. Once satisfied he bagged the mess and put it into the acid barrel. Next week he had to waste his days off of work and properly dispose of the barrel and its contents. To be extra safe he was going to drive all the way to the next state for dumping.

  Montgomery was impressed with the time he was making, but couldn’t relax just yet. He cleaned the sledgehammer and the tub and then returned the basin to its catchall state by putting the tools and bathroom debris back. He then removed his underwear (unfortunately they were blood stained beyond repair from all of the hard work) went back to the acid barrel, struggled with the lid for the second time tonight, and then dropped the garment in. This time he decided to leave the lid off in case there were any last minute additions.

  Before showering (or dressing), Montgomery took Ashley’s heart and carved off a few supple pieces. Leaving his prize on the plate, he took the rest of the muscled organ to the garage and dropped it into the acid barrel.

  Back in the kitchen, sentiment gathering, he stood naked, head bowed, praying to the dark light that compelled him to murder and feast, begging it for absolution and the strength to rejoin humanity as one of their own.

  His spirit promised all it could and Montgomery swallowed down the raw, spongy sections of Ashley’s heart, completing the makeshift rite and cleansing his soul.

  What happened to you, Montgomery?

  After showering Montgomery felt like a new man.

  Ideas flourished.

  Futures blossomed.

  He combed his wild mop, put on a nice pair of slacks, a collared shirt, and a silky tie.

  When Liz got home she was surprised to find Montgomery all dressed up. Her eyes immediately began to scan the room and a half smile painted her lips. Before she said anything he already knew what she was thinking.

  “No,” Montgomery shook his head.

  The half smile remained, “No, what? Why the tie?”

  “No, I didn’t get more.” He approached her and held her hands.

  The half smile waned, her eyes dropped to the floor, her hands lay loosely in his. “Oh.”

  Montgomery tightened his grip and shook her arms a bit. He smiled big enough for the both of them until Liz looked up and stared at him quizzically. He held his smile for a few more moments, her lips beginning to warm from confusion to a goofy smirk, and then he dropped to one knee.

  The moment he went down Liz visibly shuddered. “Montgomery?”

  He released her hands, dug a few fingers into the front pocket of his shirt, retrieved the gorgeous diamond ring he took from Ashley and then held it aloft to Liz. Another visible shudder shook her and her eyes went wide. Montgomery held the ring higher and pushed it toward her. She continued to stand wide eyed, in a state of shock or confusion or… disappointment?

  All of a sudden he felt nauseous.

  Sweat began to bead.

  Was she thinking rejection?

  Liz snapped out of her suspended state and gently took the ring from him. She held it close to her face and stared at it, transfixed, hypnotized by the shining brilliance and elegant circular shape. She looked past the ring, down at Montgomery and tried to speak but when she worked her mouth nothing came out save for a few unmade words.

  “Liz?” The worry began to dissipate. Nausea morphed to butterflies to tingles. Montgomery went for it, “Will you marry me?”

  The inability to speak tripped her up for a second or so until with a whooshing intake of air and a quick exhalation of breath she said, “Yes!”

  Tears started to gather in her eyes and Montgomery sighed loudly as a wave of relief washed over. He stood up and pulled her close. Liz pushed them apart, gave the ring back to him and then held out her left hand, ring finger poised and ready. The tears ran freely but a huge grin lit up her face. Taking the ring he lined it up with her finger and prepared to push.

  Montgomery’s thoughts spiraled.

  This wasn’t the answer, but it was necessary.

  How else was he going to get Liz to lay off the meat issue?

  This was their shot at normalcy and what better way to usher in a new chapter of their lives than to have an extravagant wedding and an equally over the top honeymoon. They could ride the high for as long as it lasted, but Montgomery knew the comedown was inevitable. Though sometimes he felt utterly stupid, he wasn’t lucky enough to actually be stupid. But alas, it was the only way, he couldn’t take anymore of the pressure, and during their weeks of wedded bliss he would keep at Liz about writing off killing and eating for good.

  But there was no denying she needed something.

&n
bsp; Her fucked up past and her distrust in humanity as a whole ate at her every single day. Montgomery’s nasty habit, unthinkable to nearly one hundred percent of the people walking the earth, actually empowered her and gave her the confidence she deserved. How could he just take that away?

  He decided it was his responsibility as her future husband to fill the void and in an attempt to make her whole he was going to try and teach her the fine art of cooking. Not normal, every day cooking, but hardcore, gourmand shit. True, it wasn’t killing or flesh eating, but it was a powerful force in its own right and if she took to it, it might be the answer to all of their problems.

  While showering he had come up with the idea and while getting dressed he was filled to the brim with excitement over the possibility of it working.

  Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

  He imagined them in the kitchen, side by side, creating, experimenting, growing. Closing his eyes, smiling big and allowing romance to dilute cognition, he slid the ring onto her finger.

  Dawn.

  Montgomery tossed and turned.

  After making love Liz fell right to sleep. She seemed to like the cooking lesson – a simple roux (at four in the morning there wasn’t much time to dive into anything deeper) to be used in a bigger lesson after they awoke – and though Montgomery didn’t spell it out for her, he didn’t say ‘Liz, this is an attempt to placate your need with a safe hobby,’ she seemed to understand what he was trying to do and went along with it enthusiastically. She was an incredible person and Montgomery felt better about his decision to propose and take their relationship to the next level.

  The cooking lesson was a good time and the future looked better than it had in years.

  But now, the sun was rising fast (blacked out windows prevented him from seeing it, but he knew it was there), and for the life of him Montgomery could not fall asleep. He had to be at work in the late afternoon and he had to be on his “A” game. The Mobil was coming soon. His employees needed to know that he was there one thousand percent. He had to make amends for erratic behavior and become the culinary master he was destined to be. But sleep eluded and nervousness frustrated. His stomach rumbled and twisted in time to an odd, steady rhythm.

  Like a heartbeat.

  Shut up.

  He ground his teeth and tried to envision honeymoon vacation spots, but they kept giving way to memories of Ashley’s milky, dead eyes, her beauty torn asunder, her vitality snuffed out.

  He wondered who was waiting for her and how they would feel when she never returned.

  That’s what life was about he supposed, and he wondered why he never really felt it as he imagined the families of his victims had felt it (were feeling it). He spent so much time worrying about the sorrow of others, about the guilt he felt over the damage he had caused, but never sorrowful over the inverse, never aching over the loss of those that died whom he did not kill directly.

  What happened when somebody he was close to died?

  Would he cry and feel empty inside?

  Over the years several extended family members had passed away and Montgomery went to their funerals and felt bad for all the people crying around him, but he didn’t cry, nor did he feel bad about their deaths per se. When those inevitable phone calls came in, a teary messenger on the other end breaking tragic news, he felt no pangs of hurt or sadness. People died. He was still alive and that was all that really mattered. It felt bad to see others hurt, but again, they were still alive. Montgomery took this sort of news in stride and internalized it as a matter of fact, nothing more. There goes another person he barely talked to anyway. Big whoop. Say hi to God or Satan or L. Ron Hubbard or whoever. But with his victims it was different because he was responsible, it was he that issued the hurt and it was he that was remorseful because of it.

  But what if his mom or dad or Liz (the only people he really cared about) were to pass on?

  Would these deaths affect him like death seemed to affect everyone else in the world?

  The answer wasn’t immediate and this scared Montgomery because what kind of monster shrugged off the death of a loved one like it was nothing?

  Deep inside, where his heart made promises and the ebb and flow of human biology churned, he feared he wouldn’t be affected as deeply as the world around him always seemed to be. He feared that instead he would feel relief, the situation over with, his concerns laid to rest, life moving that much smoother without the impending threat of loss. The less people he had to worry about the better.

  However, just because he felt this way didn’t mean he wanted to feel this way. He lacked the ability to experience the appropriate emotional responses, but this didn’t mean he didn’t want to experience these responses. He did, more than anything, and when he was contemplating killing Liz the number one question hiding out beneath particulars and motivations was this issue of feeling.

  Montgomery pictured himself despondent, eating a Liz sandwich, regretting the collapse of their potential, but he also saw himself moving on like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal! This was a woman he cherished and shared his life with! This was the woman he just proposed to! Frustration abounded because he knew he should feel more but he couldn’t. Somewhere along the line he had been cheated and robbed of the emotional complexity that manufactured compassion and true hurt. He wanted to understand, to invoke within his veins and cells and nerve endings, the romantic idealization of loss, but a cold cynicism kept his emotions in check.

  The scariest thing of all was that once he resolved to stop killing, he essentially made the decision to murder his capacity for sorrow. Montgomery wondered how he would get on without it. He would feel for Ashley for some time and he could always go back and lament his past transgressions, but what happened years and years down the line when memory dried up and he had no outlet for sadness?

  Could a person even survive?

  How could he be happy if he wasn’t able to get sad?

  The rumble in his stomach thump thumped.

  An hour before he had to leave for work Montgomery and Liz congregated in the kitchen for cooking lesson number two. The roux they created last night (or early morning) was just a practice run and Montgomery threw it out.

  “But that’s wasteful!” Liz complained. Montgomery found her incredibly sexy in her cute little silk robe, sans makeup, her hair piled high in a messy bun.

  “Rule one: we only cook with fresh ingredients, Liz.” She made a scrunchy face as he poured the viscous concoction down the drain. “With a roux it doesn’t matter so much, you can make a large quantity and refrigerate it and it’s still good, flour and fat will keep, but again rule number one. Besides, I have to make sure you retained last night’s lesson. One brown roux, please.” Montgomery smiled at her and made a sweeping gesture over the kitchen.

  Liz moved in and gave him a very sensual hug. Heat welled, escalated, until she broke their embrace and nodded with purpose, “One brown roux, coming up.”

  Not only was she sexy as hell, but smart as a whip. She gathered all the ingredients and began replicating the recipe to a T. Montgomery stood back, arms folded, looking every bit the culinary arts instructor in his Chef’s jacket. It felt good to impart what he knew and he couldn’t wait to move beyond simple thickening agents (which, make no mistake, were super important) and really show Liz a thing or two.

  “So, Iron Chef, what are we going to do with this stuff?” She turned from the simmering mixture and awaited his answer.

  “Careful, the flour–”

  “Burns fast, I know, you told me, remember?” She turned back to the stove and continued stirring.

  “Good. We’ll probably just throw it out.”

  “What?” He couldn’t see her expression what with her back turned but Montgomery knew she was making that same scrunchy face.

  “Or save it. I just want you to get the basics out of the way. Roux helps with flavor and thickening. We’ll plan a big lesson next.”

  A pleasant silence se
ttled between them and the sounds of preparation, the gas burner, the rapid whirring of the whisk, sung sweetly in his ears.

  Here was his solace. Those fears of a mute existence, neither happy nor sad, disappeared and it felt like he was being remade from the inside out. Yes, he was a miserable fuck, yes, he was a filthy murderer, crusher of dreamers, destroyer of hopes, but all of that was in the past. Ghostly reflections of his victims were in the past (or so he hoped as he nervously glanced out of the corners of his eyes. Left eye? Nothing. Right eye? Nothing.). He had absorbed their power and it was his right to bring that phase of his life to a close. It was his choice. If he wanted to be happy all he had to do was acknowledge the dead, respect the dead and all they had given him, and then cast a look a few feet in front of him at the woman fate had brought his way.

  In this kitchen, his favorite place in the world, overtaken by the head swimming smells and transported by the beauty of his soon-to-be wife, everything felt more right than it ever had in his entire life and he was ready to let go of the neurosis that hounded him day in and day out.

  “I have two whole days off.” Liz brought him out of his glorious, epiphany fueled daze.

  “What?”

  “I have these next two days off.”

  “Right, that’s right you do. Lucky. Do you want to come eat at Maize?”

  “When, tonight?”

  He smiled at her big, “Hell yeah, tonight. I totally forgot you were off. You can come in and have a few cocktails and I’ll have the kitchen make something incredible for you. I can probably get away fairly early, after the dinner rush, and then we can go out or something.”

  She abandoned the roux again and gave him another hot hug, “I was just going to do laundry and iron, but since you’re twisting my arm.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “When are you leaving?”

  He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, we’ll have to take two cars; I still have to get ready. I still have to iron.” Liz gave him another kiss, disengaged and then turned to leave.