Beyond Heaven and Earth

by Steven H. Propp

  “Can I help you, sir?” said the young stylist from the next workstation.

  “Yes”, I said, breathlessly, hoping to appear casual. “I’d like to make an appointment with Brigette to get my hair cut”.

  “Sure”, she said. “She’s on lunch, right now. But I can take the appointment for her. Let me get her book . . “. and she retrieved an appointment book that was sitting at Brigette’s workstation.

  I took advantage of this chance to look over her work area, and was ecstatic when I saw that she actually had a book there, which (judging from it’s bookmark) had been about two—thirds read. It was a book written by a popular female novelist—true, and it wouldn’t have been my first choice for her, but it was certainly better than the kind of escapist trash that most young women read these days, if they read anything at all—but at least it showed that she had potential. Under my tutorage, her literary tastes would grow and develop.

  The other stylist turned around and said, “What day and time would you like?”

  “How about tomorrow?” I said. “As late in the day as possible”.

  The other stylist frowned for a moment, then said, “Well…that’s just a hair

  style, right? With shampoo?” I nodded. “How about 5:30?” “That would be fine”.

  She started to fill out the appointment in the book, and said, “What’s your name?”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “Just put down my initials: H-E-S”. I smiled, pleased that our appointment would be a little bit mysterious to her. The stylist noted it down, and said, “You’re all set. She’ll see you tomorrow at 5:30”.

  “Thank you very much”, I said, exiting quietly, feeling triumphantly. How easy it all was.

  * * *

  I was pleased with myself; by it being her last appointment of the day, it made it perfectly natural for me to suggest that we simply have dinner together afterwards at a nearby restaurant, within easy walking distance. Then, we could either go to a movie (although this was starting to get kind of expensive for me), or perhaps just go back to my place in a taxi. (Unless she had a car? That would save me some money.)

  Upon arriving back at my apartment, I realized that the question about what to wear to our appointment tomorrow presented a problem; I was so used to wearing the hand—washed white t—shirt and black jeans that I wore to work, that I hadn’t worn anything else for months.

  Digging deeply into the boxes my “mother” had packed up for me weeks ago, I found a gray turtleneck shirt, which my “Mother” had given me for Christmas several seasons ago. Adding this to a tan pair of slacks (which I had never worn) that she had also given me, I realized looking in the mirror that I actually looked rather handsome: I had remained rather slender in build, and with my longish brown hair, I definitely looked the part of a young artist.

  The only problem was shoes. All I had was my worn—out tennis shoes that I wore every day to work and back. I knew that I couldn’t go without paying the utility bill again (since I had just gotten another 48—hour notice), and I realized that buying the shoes meant that I wouldn’t be able to pay my entire rent; but I figured that surely my landlady couldn’t evict me for being only $60 or $70 short, especially if I paid her back as soon as I was paid next week.

  And who knows? After Brigette saw how generous I was in paying for her professional services, and then dinner, then maybe a movie, and even a taxi ride home, she might feel compelled to loan me the money. She was a single professional, after all; she would probably think that the “starving artist” respect of my personality was attractive.

  * * *

  After arriving home from work, I took a nap, then took a good long shower. I finished straightening up the apartment, then gave it a good generous spray of air freshener, and got dressed in my chosen outfit.

  I had an unopened box of wine (chablis; a better quality than I usually bought for myself) in the refrigerator.

  And I made sure that the bedspread was clean. And I even lay a single rose in a vial that I’d bought at an all—night convenience store on the middle of the bed, for good luck.

  And I’m off work tomorrow; so the night is made for loving.

  Now I’m writing down all my preparations in my journal.

  Time for me to sign off now. And this is very likely going to be the last time I write in this journal, from a position of romantical solitude.

  Time for me to leave, to catch my bus in time for my 5:30 appointment.

  I am taking my journal with me, since she might want to see it. (Although she certainly can’t read any of it yet, not this early in our relationship. But one day that will be an especial treat to give to her, especially as she sees that I had everything planned out about her.)

  * * *

  Fucking bitch!

  Doesn’t the goddamn slut know better than to take personal calls while she’s supposed to be conducting business?

  Absolutely unbelieveable; just when I was about to thank her for doing a magnificent job on my haircut and give her my extremely generous tip, she gets a cell phone call, which she picks up with her free hand. Evidently it is her caveman boyfriend (whom she alternates between calling “Baby” and “Tiger”), and before you know it she is making plans to go out that evening with him. I’m the one that’s fucking paying you, bitch! Then, obscenely, she pursed her cherry lips and made a kissing noise into the receiver, before she broke off the connection.

  I was stunned; if he’d only called ten minutes later, we’d have been having dinner together, and she wouldn’t have taken the call. And her whole life would have been transformed.

  She was quickly putting away all her hair—styling implements in drawers, and she accepted my $20 fee plus $10 tip without even looking at it, and tossed it carelessly into the drawer. “Thanks”, she mumbled quickly, not even glancing at me, her attention now taken by brushing her own hair in the mirror. I wanted to grab back all my money (or at least the tip!), but it was too late. Thunderstruck, I staggered out the door, alone.

  Unwilling to believe my bad fortune, I walked across the street, and watched the shop from behind a tree, waiting to see where she would go. After only a few minutes, a large black SUV drove up, and parked directly in front of the salon. This tall dipshit with wavy black hair emerged from the SUV, his shirt carelessly open halfway, exposing a bare and hairless muscley chest. Immediately, he was greeted by Brigette, who threw her arms around him, then kissed him forcefully (tongue and everything). Finally they disengaged themselves, and she wiped her lipstick off his mouth with her fingers.

  He’s a fucking fag, Brigette; can’t you see that? He shaves his chest, for Christ’s sake! The only men who do that and who worry so much about their god-damned appearance are queers!

  The fag held her door open, and helped her into the SUV (getting rewarded with another kiss for this). He opened his own door and jumps like some stud into the seat, and the vehicle screeched into reverse, then they were gone.

  Leaving me behind, in stunned disbelief.

  * * *

  (“No, I don’t want to order anything, you bitch ass waitress. Just refill my coffee cup, and get the fuck out of here. I don’t give a damn if the booths are supposed to be reserved for people that are ordering more than just coffee. I need privacy so I can write, goddammit”. That’s what I should have told her, instead of having to move to the counter.)

  So who needs you, Brigette—I should call you “Bitchette” instead—you goddamn ball—breaking, cock—sucking cunt? Go on, and live your meaningless, useless life; you don’t deserve anything better than this. He’ll probably beat the shit out of you every night, anyway, and it’ll serve you right. You made your bed, now pee in it.

  Say, Brigette: why don’t you try and discuss the book you’re reading with him? He probably doesn’t even know how to read. He probably spends all his fr
ee time painting his hot—wax body with the colors of his favorite football team, so he can appear drunk and delirious on national TV as a “true fan”! While you have to stay at home alone, and he’s “out with the boys”. Or maybe you’ll join him there? Jumping up and down with those fat—ass tits flopping all over for everyone to see just like the whore that you are. That’s probably all you care about, you stupid slut. Good riddance; you’ll never know what you’re missing.

  Finally, I pay for my coffee and leave. I wandered around downtown for a while, aimlessly. At one point, I got bumped into the wall, to avoid a collision with a young black guy and a young white guy, who were striding shoulder to shoulder and talking profanely and loudly. Stupid assholes should watch where they’re going.

  I checked the bus schedule. The last bus left at 10:37, about half an hour from now.

  Since the slut doesn’t deserve the money I was going to spend on her, I may as well splurge, and buy a bottle of some decent vodka on the way to the bus stop. I will just tuck my journal back up under my shirt, and head out walking, and drinking.

  Back to my apartment.

  Alone again.

  Fuckit.

  * * *

  My hands are shaking so terribly with the excitement and fear of what I have done.

  Now, I realize with absolute clarity what I have been so led into keeping this Journal: It is because it has now become the complete record of my transformation from carefree post—student vagabond, to what I am now: a coldblooded killer.

  While I am fully aware of the enormitty of keeping a detailed record of what has transpired this evening (I’m sure that every prosecutor across America would love to have such a detailed record of a crime as what I am about to set down; and of such a starling “literary” quality, to boot!), but I must still take that risk. The literary uniqueness of what I am about to do overrides all considerations of mere personal safety. Although there have been literary depictions of murder by writers such as Drieser and Dostoyevsky, none of them was actually written by one who was himself a killer.

  THAT HAS NOW CHANGED!

  She was an alcoholic old biddy, a “gin blossom”, who was venturing out on the streets past 10:00 PM alone because she had to get another bottle, to hold her over until morning, when she would probably go and get another bottle. She couldn’t even wait to get home, she needed the booze so bad, so she stopped in the alley to unscrew the cap on her bottle (not seeing me standing on the other side of the garbage bin, where I’d stopped to take a drink from my own bottle) and take a long swig, presumably to give her strength for the journey back to whatever hovel she lived in.

  Hearing her obscene cackle/gasp of satisfaction as the booze hit her stomach, I was filled with sudden rage towards her: She was truly the representative of women throughout the world. It turned my stomach vomitous.

  She never had a chance to turn around, as I grabbed her throat from behind. I was amazed at how thin and delicate it felt, and how easy it was to crushingly squeeze between my fingers. They said that in moments of stress that your adrenaline gives you additional strength that you never would have imagined having— this was certainly true in my case. Although people all my life had laughed and called me “skinny”, in this case I was certainly strong enough to crush the life that tried to break free from her strangulated throat. Her fingers clutched her own bottle with both hands in a virtual death grip.

  She died with hardly even a struggle, and I let her body fall to the ground, with a thud, her bottle making a soft “clink” against the pavement.

  I retained the presence of mind to listen, to hear if anyone had heard us.

  I pulled her lifeless body out of sight behind the garbage bin. I listened and looked around intently, to see if my act had been seen or heard by anyone. But everything remained quiet.

  I had the presence of mind to pick up the bottle of booze she had dropped, and replace the cap on it. I quickly stuffed it along with my own bottle into my slacks in back, covering them by tucking out my shirt.

  I went out the darkened alley the back way, to my bus stop.

  The 10:37 bus was right on time. I tried to get on as inconspicuously as I could, but no one among the three passengers, including the driver, seemed to care about me, as I sat down towards the back, sitting gingerly due to the bottles that were secreted in my pants in the back. To the other passengers, even if they had cared to look at me, I would just appear like a college kid, on his way home from a hot date.

  I thought with racing mind about what had just transpired. I just killed a woman, and yet I’m calmly riding the bus back to my own apartment, looking completely innocent.

  I deliberately got off two stops past my usual stop, just in case anyone noticed me, so I had to walk farther than usual to get back to my apartment. Although I normally would have felt a sense of anxiety and fear at being out alone so late at night, I felt a sense of invulnerability. Go ahead and jump me, I felt like shouting out. And see what it gets you, because I can kill you, too; I know now that I’ve got the power.

  After locking my apartment door tightly behind me, I took the larger bottle I had taken from the old woman, and slid it underneath the couch. I tore open my bottle of vodka, and took a big gulp. I waited a second, then took another big gulp. I almost gagged, and shook my head to try and shake it off, but finally I was able to relax and sat down immediately at the table.

  I began immediately to write this all out. But I realize that I’ve got to find a hiding place to keep this journal, from now on, just in case the Police have a search warrant. (If they find it, maybe I can claim that this is just fiction? I’m a writer, after all.)

  After another large swallow, I realized that my own vodka had run out, and that it was past two o’clock, so I couldn’t even use my few remaining dollars to buy some beer at the corner all—night convenience store. My mind remembered the bottle from the old lady, that I had stashed under the couch.

  What if she had some sort of disease? A maggoty old lady like that, she might have had Hepatitis, or AIDS, or God knows what sort of disease.

  So I poured it out of the bottle into a glass, trying to avoid having the liquid touching the sides of the bottle’s opening where her disgusting mouth would have touched, and poured the contents out; more than half a liter, I thought with satisfaction. Phew; gin stinks.

  I realized that I needed to dispose of her bottle, which might have her fingerprints on it.

  I quietly opened the door to my apartment, and cautiously peered out. It was completely quiet—not unusual for a working—class neighborhood during the week. I crept to the apartment building’s trash bin, and carefully hid the old lady’s bottle among the other garbage. Trash pick is the day after tomorrow, anyway.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I reentered my apartment, locking the door and latching it behind me. I sat down on my couch, to savor my reward.

  People that are cannibals are supposedly driven by the thought that they can appropriate the strength and power of the one they have killed by drinking their blood, and eating their flesh. So I should experience a similar effect from sharing the vodka of one that I have killed, where the vodka has touched her own lips, right? Let’s see.

  And I drank down about two and ½ ounces, my eyes tearing up from the pungent liquid that was scalding my mouth and throat.

  It works; I can feel my power growing now, I thought, as I sat back down to this journal.

  * * *

  As I woke up the following morning, I was amazed at how calm I felt. I’ve killed someone, and yet I have no sense of remorse. Since I was off work, I just watched all the news programs on TV, but there was nothing.

  Nothing appeared in the paper until the second day after the killing, when I was already back at work. Apparently it had taken a little while to notify the woman’s next of kin, so they didn’t print anything in th
e papers the first day.

  Her name had been Beverly Estes. She had lived downtown for more than forty—five years, and was survived only by a grand niece.

  (I felt good about the fact that it seemed like there was no one who particularly seemed like they would miss her.)

  I did find myself regretting that I hadn’t checked her pockets to see if she had any money. Next time I kill someone, I’ll have to take her money, as well. I was astonished to see how naturally this thought came to me. There was no hesitation, no questioning, just a simple acknowledgment that I will kill again, and soon.

  Because now I truly realize, that I have found my calling in life.

  * * *

  I realized that all over this city, there were potential victims. Old people who have just cashed their Social Security checks, terrified middle—aged women who would gladly hand over their purses to a strong young man who threatened them with a weapon.

  There were also hundreds of small businesses, laundromats which kept cash on hand to make change for customers, and of course hair salons. (Stupid bitches!)

  Liquor stores and bars seemed like likely targets to investigate to find my next victims. The victims were already thrown out of their normal sense of caution when they had been drinking, so that would make them that much easier to victimize.

  Why didn’t “normal” criminal types realize this? Its because they’re too stupid, just like in those books about the stupidest criminals that got caught. Whereas a person with a probably genius IQ like mine will never get caught.

  * * *

  The true importance of my literary endeavor is starting to be fully understood by my own eyes. Not only have I recorded the details about my murder immediately after it was committed, but I am in the position to record my entire conversion to a life of criminal activity. In fact, I no longer like to think of myself as a killer; “assassin” is the term I now prefer. I terminate the worthless lives of those who have no better need for them anyway. I have justifiably now crossed out the word “Artist” in the title of this journal, since it is no longer applicable to me. (Although I like to believe that I bring an “artistic” touch to the work of a trained assassin.)