Anger Issues

by TylerRose.

  Culpation League

  Story#3:

  Anger

  Issues

  By

  TylerRose.

  © 2017 TylerRose.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion

  Except with express written permission of the author.

  Buying a copy does not give you that right.

  Made in the USA

  Produced by:

  TylerRose.

  P.O. Box 56003

  Astoria, NY 11105

  Cover photo by TylerRose.

  Thank you to

  Kelly and Candee

  For your feedback and help proofreading.

  NOTICE

  Any persons attempting to find

  a motive or metaphor in this narrative

  will be caned by a Singapore judiciary specialist.

  And you won’t like it.

  Persons attempting to find a moral in it

  will be flogged with barbed wire.

  And you won’t like it!

  Persons attempting to find an analogy

  will be trussed up in half a mile of barbed wire

  and hanged by their thumbnails

  in the nearest dungeon.

  AND YOU WON’T LIKE IT!!!

  By order of the Author, per Mark Twain.

  In other words,

  this is a

  WORK OF FICTION!

  Please enjoy it as such

  Chapter One

  “Your sister’s daughter is eight. You were about that age the first time I did you. I can’t wait for her to sleep over with us next week. I hope she’s as cooperative as you were.”

  Words that rang in her ears a thousand times between Grampa’s birthday party and her home. Yeah, she’d been cooperative. Only because he’d threatened to have a go at her sister if she put up too big a fuss. Fucker.

  She took the biggest knife from her kitchen block, put on her favorite pair of gloves to protect her hands. She got back in the car and put the knife across her lap. She drove to her uncle’s house, parking across the street and two houses down so people would be sure to see her arrive. He lived around the block from Grampa, had married her aunt, her mother’s sister.

  They were home, having left the party before she did. The living room light and television were on. He passed the window on the way to his chair, wearing just his undershirt and shorts. Aunt Bree was in the kitchen, preparing coffee.

  She got out of the car, knife hidden behind her right arm, and went first to the neighbor’s house. She rang the bell, waited for someone to answer. The man of the house did, forty-something years old. He had always been nice to her. He would do.

  “I need you to see something, Mr. Ballan. I need a good witness. Can you just stand here and watch me a moment?”

  “Uhh, sure. What’s going on?” he asked, eyes quizzical over this very odd request.

  “You’ll see.”

  She turned to leave the porch, the knife flipping up in front of her arm so he wouldn’t see it. She walked across his lawn onto that of her aunt and uncle, went up the steps and rang the bell. She looked to be sure Mr. Ballan was still watching, smiled at him, dropped the tip of the knife at her side and turned it around in her hand to be ready. Her fingers were against the butt of the big blade, to prevent her hand sliding onto the sharp edge when she struck.

  The door in front of her opened, the uncle opening it. Aunt Bree never answered the door herself. That could be counted on.

  “What are you doing here?”

  They’d never had a screen door. She shoved the knife upwards and in with all her strength, driving it into his gut. Pulled out, and thrust in again, he could only stand there stunned by the shock and intense pain of her assault. She kicked him backwards to fall onto his back. Over him, landing hard on his bleeding gut, she turned the knife to bring it straight down as many times as she could in the few seconds she had. Blood splattered and sprayed all around the room and all over her from face to thighs.

  He died under her, between her legs. In the next second, someone hit the knife out of her hand and grabbed her from behind to drag her off him. She didn’t fight. She’d done what she had intended to do. She was dragged onto the porch, to the walled side where she couldn’t run away. Not that she was going to anyway. She sat there to catch her breath from the exertion, realization hitting her that she’d finally done it.

  Running away had never been part of the plan. She waited patiently for the police to arrive. Mr. Ballan stayed with her. He didn’t try to ask her anything. He was just…there. Two cars of uniformed officers arrived. Two officers went in. The other two came to stand over her and ask what happened. She said nothing until the detective arrived. There was no need to talk to uniforms. The detective was easy to recognize when he arrived. He wore a suit, and his eyes saw everything at once.

  “I killed him,” she said when he was on the porch, having locked eyes with him the instant he turned his head to see her.

  “Stay here. Don’t say another word,” he told her, and went inside to see the scene.

  Body on the floor with at least twenty stab wounds, crying wife in a chair, knife next to the body, blood in all directions except the void where knees would have been on either side. He went outside again. Mr. Ballan told him what had happened, starting with the knock on his door.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ballan. If we need anything more from you, I’ll let you know,” the Detective said, looking at her rather than him.

  He turned to her full on, crouched near her, assessed the blood all over her.

  “I am Detective Hornell. What made you do this?” he asked in far more gentle a tone than she might have expected.

  “Doesn’t matter. I did it. I admit I did it. I killed him. Take me to jail so I can have my day in court.”

  “What’s your lawyer’s name?” he asked.

  “I don’t have one,” she replied.

  “Law says you have to have a lawyer on retainer at all times.”

  “Tell the state to pay more money to those who can’t work so we can afford a retainer,” she said without pause.

  Too calm. She was far too calm for the violence of the scene inside. He could see for himself that she’d straddled him while killing him. The uncle’s blood was not only on the front of her shirt, but had fully saturated her pants between her thighs. She was soaked wet with blood and, most likely, the uncle’s urine from the moment of death.

  “I drove here with my gloves on and the knife across my lap. I rang the neighbor’s bell first to be sure I had a witness. I went to my uncle’s door. He answered and I stabbed him in the gut twice. I kicked him so he would fall backwards. I straddled his waist and stabbed him however many times I stabbed him before someone pulled me off. I held the knife turned with the edge of the blade forward so I wouldn’t lose my grip and slice my fingers. I did not fight the person who intervened. End of story. I did it.”

  Nothing else to do about it. Hornell asked her to take off the gloves for the forensics team that had just arrived. Hornell helped her up and cuffed her hands together in front of her.

  “If you start to resist, I’ll re-cuff behind you,” he warned.

  “I won’t resist. I have no reason to,” she said.

  He put a blanket on the seat so she wouldn’t get blood all over it, and drove her to the station himself. The ride was over in minutes. She was processed quickly. Clothes taken, allowed to shower, fingerprints taken (though she told them hers should be on file already from a previous job) and pictures. She was put into solitary confinement, not knowing enough about her to know if she’d rage out and kill someone else.

  Hornell went to see his Captain, rapping on the open door while leaning half int
o the room.

  “Cap, you have a minute?”

  “I’m leaving. What?” the Captain said, pulling on his suit jacket.

  “I got this woman in solitary. Stabbed her uncle, uncle by marriage, in cold blood on his doorstep. Confessed on the spot but won’t give any reasons why. Just says yes she did it.”

  “He rape her at some point?” the Captain asked. “That’s usually why these things happen.”

  “I haven’t asked any specific questions yet,” Hornell had to admit.

  “Did she plan it?”

  “Yes. Wore gloves to protect her hands from the blade slipping.”

  “Then her reasons don’t really matter. If she at all planned it, then she can’t get off on temporary insanity anyway.”

  “There has to be more to it,” Hornell insisted.

  “No, there doesn’t, Detective. It’s a nice, neat package. Leave it lay and move on to something more pressing. You have more important cases requiring your attention. I’m going now. Good night.”

  “Yes, Sir. Good night,” Hornell gave in.

  He went to his desk to write it up. Reports from the first responding officers arrived within the hour. He charged her with murder in the first degree and failure to keep a lawyer on retainer. The DA could decide to amend the charges if needed. He went home to his wife and tried to forget the very odd case that was too neat and tidy.

  She thanked the Sergeant for the meal when he brought it at the midpoint of the evening shift. When the clock she could see read midnight, she let herself lie down to sleep. Despite the noise of other arrestees, she slept soundly through the night. The door opening woke her, the Detective coming in to give her a brown paper sack and a covered cup. A sandwich and coffee.

  “You don’t have a lot of time. If you would tell the judge your uncle was a child molesting pervert, you might have a chance at the Court’s sympathy,” he said more kindly than he should have.

  “Thank you for the sandwich. I do not want the Court’s sympathy. I want the opposite of the Court’s sympathy.”

  “I wish you would tell me why,” he said.

  She bit into the warm breakfast sandwich of egg, cheese and sausage, clearly not going to say anything more.

  “The van will be here in half an hour to take you.”

  The van taking the night’s arrestees to the court house. She was again put into solitary when they arrived, but not for long. Her case was among the first to be heard. A woman in a suit came in to the cell, tried to get her to say why she’d killed her uncle. She wouldn’t say.

  “Fine. Have it your own way,” the court-employed defense attorney gave up. “ I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped. Let’s go get this over with.”

  Finally. Someone who got it.

  She went with two officers through the access corridor to the courtroom. The case was read. Murder in the First and failure to retain a lawyer.

  “The Defendant signed a confession,” the DA said at once, offering the page to the Bailiff.

  The Judge read it. I stabbed my uncle to death of my own volition. I am guilty.

  A signature. Nothing else. He looked at the mug shots included with the confession. Maybe he should have been shocked. Instead, he found himself struggling to keep a straight face. The small grin on her face said exactly how pleased she was with herself.

  “Does the Defendant’s attorney have anything to say?” he asked.

  “Only that there are circumstances the Court should know. However, the Defendant is wholly uncooperative in bringing them to light.”

  “Defendant, what have you to say?” the Judge asked.

  “I did it, Your Honor. I got a knife from my home. I went to his home. I stabbed him to death when he opened the door. There is nothing else to tell. Sentence me already and let’s both get on with our day.”

  “Very well. Defendant’s confession stands as is. Since the punishment for murder is execution, I see no point in bothering with the failure to retain a lawyer charge. That is dismissed as irrelevant. The prisoner is remanded at once to State Prison 23 to await execution.”

  With a humungous breath and smile of relief, she went willingly with the guards to the empty van waiting outside. She sat alone in the back, cuffed to the seat, for a good half hour until a driver arrived. Two guards got in and they were off.

  The drive was so long that they went through a fast food window and parked in its lot to eat. People stared as she was escorted to and from the toilet in handcuffs. One guard went in with her, to uncuff before she used a stall and prevent others from coming in. He re-cuffed her after she’d washed her hands.

  “No one else is going to say this,” he said quietly as he was putting the cuffs back on. “But good for you, honey.”

  She made no reply, in case it would be reported and somehow mess with her execution.

  Back in the van, again cuffed to the seat, they continued on. She fell asleep, curling up to one side of the seat as best as she could manage.

  “Hey, we’re here,” woke her as hands opened the cuff.

  She was slow to rouse, stiff and tired, and needing help to step down. One of them had covered her with his jacket to keep her warm, and took it back in the garage.

  A pain in her ankle had her limping and slow as they passed through a chain fence corridor. The sun had gone down. She had no idea what time it was.

  Into a quiet little room and the driver handed over her thin file. She’d never been convicted of anything before. There were all of three pieces of paper in the file, from this case and two others. They left her there with the Intake Officer and another two guards.

  The cavity search was next. She was told to strip and bend over. A gloved hand invaded her vagina, fingers reaching far inside to swish back and forth. She clenched her jaw at the abrupt raid, unable to stop the small orgasm. Two fingers went deep into her anus and were out in two seconds. She was given a black knee-length nightgown with lace straps.

  For prisoners? she questioned silently as she put it on.

  She was taken through a door into the cell block, deposited into a cell. Mind racing with the possibility of it all being over within the next day, she used the small toilet and went to bed. Noise in the corridor woke her. The slot on the door opened and a tray of food was left there. Breakfast foods including a bowl of fruit. She didn’t find anything objectionable, and ate her fill.

  Shortly after finishing, the slot opened for the tray to pass through and she was told to be ready to leave in a couple more minutes. Expecting a couple minutes to mean an hour from now, she was surprised when the door opened literally two minutes later.

  She joined a line of some thirty other women that was taken down a floor to work in a laundry. Bed linens, blankets, shower towels, table linens, cloth napkins, the identical nightgowns they all wore, here and there a handkerchief or a pair of socks. All were inspected one by one for damage. Damaged items went into a pile to be repaired or thrown away. Some sheets had blood and other stains on them. Those went into another pile to be treated. Some had fecal matter, wet or dried. Some were soaked with urine.

  Faces around her were grim, especially on seeing blood on a sheet. They whispered among themselves, speculating and looking around to see who was missing since the previous day. They seemed relieved that no one was.

  When the stained items had been treated, those women washed their hands and went to the team taking things out of washers and putting into dryers. When the last of the items were in washers and all the dryers were full, they were taken across the corridor to the large walking track. Two picnic tables sat ten feet on the other side of the door. The line went to the left, each woman handed a tray already filled with lunch and beverage. Plastic utensils and paper napkin were there. Even a slice of pie for dessert.

  To the tables and they sat in order that they arrived. There was no leaving line to sit with someone of your choosing. She followed the person in front of her, did what she did until they were both safely seated.
Not wanting to make friends, not wanting to engage with anyone, she kept her eyes on her tray and ate her meal. Others talked around her, no one trying to speak with her.

  They had a set time to eat. When it was up, they formed the line again to dump the trash and pile the trays. A trip through a five stall toilet room and they were lined up to be taken back across the corridor. The last washers were done. Everyone who had been on washers went to folding. Many hands made easy work and they were finished rather quickly by her estimation. No one told them to work faster. They just did, as if they knew better things were on the other side of laundry being done.

  When there was nothing left to fold, they were lined up again and taken back through the track room. There were two doors next to the toilet room. The first was a corridor of two turns. Nine women at a time were given a group number to remember. The first group took off their nightgowns at the far end of the corridor and went into the next room. The line moved up. She did what the woman in front of her did, as they were in the same group.

  Showers. Again, they were to line up in order around the walls, three showerheads per wall, each woman had a three foot by three foot area of her own, a strip on the floor marking the space. The soap was on a rope latched to the wall. All nine heads started at once. She stood to the side, used an arm to test the temperature before stepping under it.

  Within seconds, the temperature began to fluctuate. Repeatedly, seconds colder, then warmer again.

  “Knock that shit off!” she shouted angrily.

  “What’s the problem?” asked one of the guards watching them.

  “Turning the water cold over and over. New person. Haha. Knock it the fuck off!”

  “We aren’t doing that,” he told her.

  “Bullshit.”

  “We don’t have access to temperature control. We couldn’t even if we wanted to. You have two minutes left. Get washed.”

  Jaw clenched, accepting that it was “just her,” she took the bar of soap to spin in her hands and make bubbles with. It was to be used for hair also, she observed in others. She didn’t have time for that, and let the water rinse through her hair. She’d had a shower at the jail after being processed, so it wasn’t like she was really dirty. She was mostly washing off sweat from the laundry work.