by Nikki Sex
The evil bitch smiles. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out. I’m going to kill her, but you’ll never know. Because I’m going to kill you first.”
The ice turns to fire and I move. Every bit of darkness there is inside me, every ounce of hate and rage and fury surges to the surface.
The Beast is off its chain.
Bang!
I feel like I’ve been punched, kicked with enough force to make me fall backward. I would’ve fallen backward too. Except that I was already moving.
Running toward the gun.
For a long moment, time stops – yet inexplicably, it also speeds. In that eternal instant, my every sense becomes hyperaware. The smell of cordite and fir trees; the sound of passing cars and trucks on a major road nearby; fucking Rose Dunlop’s mother’s face, eyes wide, pupils black as hell, mouth open wide.
I slam the woman against a tree and my hands curl around her throat.
I’ve read a lot about anatomy and physiology. It’s extremely difficult to break the human neck. The bones and muscles of a human spine provide strong resistance. You can only do it if you know how.
With deliberate intent I apply pressure at a higher, specific point of the mad woman’s throat and combine that with a twist and pull. I grunt with the effort it takes. She squirms and gasps beneath me, but I pay attention. It’s then that I commit murder.
I break her hyoid bone, snap.
It’s easy when you know how.
It’s not a lot harder with a woman than a cat. My adversary drops dead at my feet.
Emily is safe. My enemy has been overcome and vanquished.
A cathartic moment of euphoric pleasure floods throughout my whole body. This heady primal rush is something I’ve never known before. I want to beat my chest and dance around a fire with a spear. I want to scream with joy and conquest. Victory is mine!
This indescribable pleasure lasts all of about three seconds.
My energy’s spent. I collapse, falling to the ground and lying on my back. Stars are only just beginning to come out in the night sky. I stare at them.
Well shit. I can’t move. I’m dying.
An excruciating spasm assaults me. My lungs seize. My body convulses. Internally, every part of me screams. My mouth falls open – but instead of shrieking, only a soft hiss issues from my throat, heralding my agony and despair.
The sound is soft and pathetic. Is that tiny utterance the last noise I’m capable of making before I die?
There is no one nearby to hear me, even if I’d been able to scream.
I’ve never been so alone.
I’ve also never felt such unbearable pain. Time stops. There’s only this one eternal moment, the agony of now.
I’m twenty-six years old. I’m too young to die. I’ve been an idiot most of my life. I’ve been an asshole… but just recently, I’ve learned so much. Everything has been coming together. If I live, I really think that I can make something of myself.
But I’m not going to live.
Inexorable pressure, like the invisible hand of some cruel giant, pushes down hard on my chest. No air! Each breath I take becomes more and more difficult. Wow. Is this what it feels like to be starved for oxygen? As a Dom I like breath play. It’s kind of karmic to be on the other side.
But I sure as fuck don’t get an erotic thrill from this.
I’m dizzy. My vision tunnels. Physical pain fades, but sadness stabs at me. This agony of heart and soul is intense. It’s worse than any bodily torment.
Emily. The crazy woman said she was going to kill her, not that she had killed her. I have to believe that my little rabbit is safe.
I have so many regrets, but my biggest sorrow comes from the thought of losing Emily. Not only losing her, but leaving her. Not being there for her. My one pure and perfect joy has come from Emily. I’m so grateful that I’ve had her in my life. She’s taught me so much.
If only we had more time together.
My sweet girl will be distraught. I can’t imagine how she’ll deal with my death. With all that I’m enduring, the thought of her pain is more than I can take. I forcefully shove the reflection away. I wish I could protect her from this.
Blood continues to pump from me. I feel its warmth flowing onto my chest. I’m floating in a mental haze. As I near death, I enter a strangely comfortable state of philosophical delirium.
Is it better to kill…or to be killed?
What if you took another person’s life by accident… say perhaps, through a moment of incompetent or distracted driving? That would create a burden of guilt that you’d have to live with for the rest of your life. It may even drive a person to suicide.
Pre-meditated murder assumes that one’s conscience is reconciled to committing such a sin. Once reaching that point, guilt and regret wouldn’t be an issue.
What about an impulsive murder of passion? Can one honestly justify killing another by pleading temporary insanity? Would a temporary loss of control lessen the burden of guilt afterwards? Even if someone still died by your hands?
But I’m not crazy. My actions didn’t result from temporary insanity. For me, it was pure animal instinct.
I killed on purpose.
As my life drains away, I smile because I know that if I had the chance, I’d do it again.
The stars above me disappear. My sight has gone completely, now I’m blind. As I begin to lose consciousness, I realize something. It seems funny and makes me want to laugh. I wonder if Emily would get the joke.
Committing murder is one thing I don’t regret.
I remember André’s question. The riddle that he gave me that I have no idea how to solve. “What would have to happen for you to give yourself to Emily completely?”
All of my life I’ve refused to be vulnerable, weak, or out-of-control. The idea of being helpless or under another person’s control has always panicked me. I realize that I’ve only ever really trusted myself.
Is this insight the basis of Emily’s intuitive awareness?
Right here, right now, I have no control. My life is being taken from me and there is nothing that I can do about it.
So close! The answer to André’s question here somewhere, I can feel it. I don’t want to die before I figure this out.
What else did André say? It is often the way of someone who has associated control with life, and loss of control with death. In such cases I believe that it is difficult to surrender.
The answer is blinding, even though I’m now virtually sightless.
Oh, it’s so obvious! I’ve been such a fool. No wonder Emily can’t trust me – I’ve never trusted anyone. I never given my little rabbit what she needed. I couldn’t let go – not once did I believe that anyone would catch me.
This is a wondrous moment of clarity.
In control, or with no control, I’m exactly who and what I should be. Elated, I long to share this revelation with Emily.
It’s my last thought as I fade into death.
Chapter 47.
“I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil.”
– J.R.R. Tolkien
~~~
They say that after surgery, hearing comes back first.
Whoever ‘they’ are, they know what they’re talking about.
My eyes won’t open. Is this some sort of bizarre dream?
I can’t figure out where the hell I am or what’s going on. I do know that I feel really shitty. Dizzy, nauseated, disoriented. I hear the sound of muted conversations, repetitive, noisy beeping and weird humming.
Suddenly a constricting sensation surrounds my right bicep. The pressure increases, increases… and then suddenly loosens.
“Mr. Jarman, your blood pressure is just fine,” a voice says. “I’ll just check that wound for you now.”
Blood pressure. Ah. I’m in the hospital. I should’ve recognized the pungent scents of antiseptic, disgusting bodily fluids and misery. Fucked if I can remember how I got here.
I feel the gentle movement of something around my abdomen and chest. Fingertips. Someone’s touching me. A nurse? It’s imperative that I talk to them and figure out what’s going on. I open my mouth but only a weird moan-like sound comes out. I still can’t open my eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Jarman! Good, you’re waking up,” the irrepressibly upbeat voice says. What is it about nurses? Every one of them is almost offensively good-natured.
Shit. I’m only pissed off because I feel so damn miserable. If I could actually figure out how to use my mouth I’d probably say something snarky like, ‘Yeah ... it was that or die, so I thought I'd wait to see what's on for breakfast before I decided.’
I go back to sleep then, I’m pretty sure, because the cheerful woman isn’t there when I wake up. This time I can open my eyes and when I do, it all comes back. The mad woman, the gun and the distinctive and unique feel of breaking someone’s neck.
But hey, I’m alive. Who would’ve thought?
Emily is sitting on the seat beside my bed and this improves my mood considerably. “Hey, rabbit,” I croak out.
“Oh, my poor Bo Bo, you’re awake,” she says, immediately coming closer. She kisses my lips and puts her cheek against mine. I feel moisture on my face, hot tears. Emily’s been crying.
I try to lift my hand and end up moving a couple fingers. The effort defeats me. Emily notices, picks my hand up and holds it to her face.
“Tom?” she says.
My dad comes over to my bed. His balding head shines under the harsh hospital lighting. With his reddish hair and mustache, combined with that stocky build of his, he could pass as a biker.
My dad smiles down benevolently at me. “Hi,” he says.
“I’ll go get a doctor,” Emily says, placing my hand back on the bed.
“Do you remember much, son?” Dad asks softly.
“No,” I manage to get out.
Dad always calls me Paul – he never calls me son. I’m touched by the endearment. The way he looks me is so caring, and the concern in his voice warms me.
“Don’t talk, you’re tired,” he says gruffly. “Let’s see what the doctor has to say when he sees you. But no one will leave you alone, son. Someone will always be here. Your mom’s been here a lot, she only just went home. She and I have buried the hatchet.”
My father tries to laugh, but it’s a piss poor effort. “It took us almost losing our son to realize how stupid we’ve been. That kind of thing sort of gets your priorities straight, you know?”
Just like Emily, I can see that my dad’s been crying, too. Wow.
My father isn’t an emotional guy. I’m pretty sure he would rather cut off his right arm than let anyone see him cry. The fact that he’s willing to weep in front of me, blows my mind. The fact that he’s crying for me, is an even greater privilege.
I want to reassure him that I’m okay. We don’t hug, but wonder of wonders, I want to hold him and hug him. On top of all that, I feel like crying, too.
I must be sicker than I thought.
Emily returns with a doctor who looks at my charts and looks at me. “How are you feeling?” he says.
“Like I almost died.”
“I don’t know what that feels like, but you did almost die. Are you in pain?”
“A little. It’s not too bad.”
He explains about patient controlled pain management and places a little button in my hand. I press it, just to see if I can. I don’t feel any big result, not that I was looking for one.
When he leaves a couple of nurses come in together, pull the curtains, straighten sheets and alter my position so that I’m more comfortable. They generally rearrange things as I suppose nurses must do.
This twenty minutes or so of activity exhausts me. I give my apologies to Emily and my dad and go back to sleep.
Later I find out that I was shot by a .22, a small caliber bullet. It missed my heart, went right through my chest and spleen and lodged itself in a rib. I almost bled to death. Surgery took five hours. I was incredibly lucky because it missed my vital organs. I did lose my spleen, but hey. People can live without that.
The crazy woman had zapped Em with a Taser as she got into her car. That’s how she got Emily’s phone and sent me a text.
When I was up for it, the police took my report, but all the evidence was straightforward. I told them how Mrs. Dunlop admitted that she tried to run Emily over with her car, and how she intended to kill her right after the billboard went up.
I explained that the disturbed woman was a mechanic, and that she admitted that she’d sawed through the wheel studs on my car.
“And sir, are you aware that Mrs. Dunlop is dead?”
“I didn’t know that until my dad told me, after I was admitted to the hospital.”
“Sir, do you know how Mrs. Dunlop died?”
“Ms. Dunlop told me that she was going to kill me,” I explain. “I knew I couldn’t run, I was too close to her. I did the only thing I could think of, which was to run directly at her and take the gun away. That’s exactly what I did. I kind of recall knocking her into a tree, but that’s it.”
“Yes,” the officer says. “That’s exactly the statement we have from young Mr. Reggie Turner.”
I fight to keep a straight face. “Reggie was there?”
“Oh, I thought you knew,” the officer says. “Mr. Reggie Turner saw the whole thing and dialed 911. You owe your life to that young man.”
Lily Turner and her son Reggie come to see me, once I’m well enough to sit up out of bed. Reggie and I both connive to make Lily go pick us up something to eat from the hospital Volunteer shop so we can talk.
The moment she leaves, I begin, “Thanks for saving my life, Reggie.”
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“How did you know where I was? How did you know to call an ambulance?”
“I followed you out.”
Okay then. Our little spy in training saw the whole thing.
We meet each other’s gaze and Reggie looks away. Is he ashamed because I killed that woman? Or embarrassed by something else?
“What is it, Reggie?”
He stares down at his hands which are tightly clasped together. Reggie can’t meet my eyes. “I saw what was happening,” he says, “but I was afraid.” He sits up straighter and looks at me. His voice raises, becoming a little hysterical. “I could’ve saved you. I could’ve talked to her and stopped her…”
“Nope,” I say calmly. “Man, you should’ve seen that woman’s eyes. Those were crazy person eyes. She was right off her rocker. She probably would’ve shot you too. You did exactly the right thing, Reggie.”
He stares in the vicinity of my chest for a bit and gradually meets my eyes.
I smile. “I’m not kidding. You did the right thing, buddy,” I say again. “I’m fine. And that’s because of you.”
Reggie’s eyes well and a tear begins to fall. I pretend I’m looking at something else, while he wipes his face and sniffs.
“You killed her,” he finally says to me.
Okay. Well. I didn’t expect him to talk about that little detail. “I sure did,” I say.
“She said she was going to kill Emily,” Reggie says. I hear raw hate in his voice. Emily adores Reggie and his mom. Those feelings are pretty well reciprocated.
“Yes, she did say that,” I agree.
Reggie’s on firmer ground now, discussing what I did. I wonder if he thought I was going to lie to him.
I’ve been a lot of things, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been a liar. Well, not until it came to deciding to stretch the truth with the police. There’s no point in admitting that I killed someone to the authorities. They would have to do something about it. That would’ve been just plain stupid.
“Thanks for telling the police what happened.” This is my tactful way of saying ‘thanks for the cover-up.’
“You’re welcome.” Lying to the police doesn’t faze him in the least.
We sit together compa
nionably for a while, without saying anything. Lily’s taking her time. I suspect that she’s doing this on purpose.
“The same thing happened in Portland,” Reggie says.
Say what? I raise my eyebrows but keep my mouth shut. Holy shit. Am I finally going to get the Reggie story?
“I was a witness,” he says.
“Oh?” I say encouragingly.
“The WMD’s Gang, they,” he pauses as if he has difficulty either saying what happened… or remembering what happened. “They hurt someone. I ran away because I was afraid.”
“You were right to be afraid and I’m glad that you ran away,” I say. “Otherwise you may not be here now. Then who would’ve saved my life?”
I’m trying to cheer him up, but the kid’s in way too deep. He’s got that thousand yard stare, you know? Like he’s seeing something else. He isn’t here, with me. He’s back then, back there to where and when the ‘bad thing’ happened.
“I ran away and called 911,” he whispers.
“That sounds very sensible.”
“The police tracked my phone. They said that I was a witness and wanted me to rat on the WMD’s.”
Uh-oh. “Well, that’s one shitty set of circumstances. What did you do?”
“I lied to the police. I told them I didn’t see anything. But the WMD Gang are looking for whoever dialed 911. I got rid of the phone and mom and I moved here.”
“Well, Reggie. Sometimes people need to have secrets. I think that’s okay, as long as we can tell at least one person. I’m telling you and Emily, but no one else. Emily and I’ll keep your secret and you can keep mine. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I clear my throat. “Well, just so we’re clear,” I say. “My secret is that I intentionally killed that woman and in the same circumstances, I’d do it again. She was going to kill Emily.”
“I know,” Reggie says with a grave nod.
His chest raises as he grabs a large lungful of air. Reggie’s body is tense, his jaw clenches. “I told my mom and now I’ll tell you. I saw four people I know from the WMD gang rape and beat a woman to death. Her name was Nancy. She was a hooker on 82nd but she was nice. I don’t know why they did it, but they got away with it.”
