I’m just finishing tying her feet with her underwear when she wakes up. She notices three things at once. The first is I’m still here and this is no dream. The second is she’s naked. The third is she’s tied to the bed spread-eagled. I can see her checking these things off in her mind on this big mental list she has. One. Two. Three.
From there she’s noticing things that haven’t happened yet. Four. Five. And six. I can see her imagination running wild. The muscles are pulling in her face as she considers asking me a question. Her eyes are darting back and forth as she struggles to work out which part of me to focus on. Her forehead is shiny with sweat. I can see her gripping at levers in her mind, searching for the one to pull that will show her options. I watch her pull all of them, but the levers are just coming off in her hands.
I show her my knife again. Her eyes come to a stop on the blade. “See this?”
She nods. Yeah, she sees it. She’s crying too.
I place the tip of the blade on her cheek and ask her to open her mouth. She becomes eager to help out when the blade starts to scratch her. Then, reaching over to my briefcase, I pull out an egg and slip it into her mouth. Cooperation comes easy once they find acceptance. The egg is nothing abnormal, just a standard unboiled egg. The thing about eggs is they’re high in protein. They also make great gags. “If you’ve got a problem with this,” I say, “just let me know.”
She says nothing. No problems, obviously.
I head into the bathroom, find her towel, bring it back out, and cover her face with it. I take my clothes off and climb onto the bed. She hardly moves, doesn’t complain, just keeps on crying until she can cry no more. When we’re done and I climb off, I find that at some point the egg has slipped to the back of her mouth, at which point it proceeded to choke her, successfully. This explains the gagging I heard and, at the time, mistook for something else. Oops.
I shower, dress, and pack my gear together. The faces on the photographs lining the staircase watch me as I walk downstairs. I keep expecting them to say something to me or, at the very least, complain about something I’ve done here. When I get outside and away from them, I’m washed over by a warm flood of relief.
The relief is short-lived, and within a few seconds I start to feel rotten. I cast my eyes down and watch my feet as I walk. Yep. Feeling bad. Feeling blue. Things didn’t go as they should have, and I ended up taking a life. I pause on the lawn and pluck a flower from a rosebush. I hold it to my nose and smell the petals, but it can’t bring a smile to my face. A thorn pricks my finger and I put the wound into my mouth. The taste of blood begins to replace the taste of Angela.
I put the flower in my pocket and make my way to her car. The sun is still out, but lower now, shining directly into my eyes. The day has cooled so maybe the heat I feel isn’t from the sun, but is inside me. I want to smile. I want to enjoy the remaining day, but I can’t.
I have taken a life.
Poor Fluffy.
Poor pussycat.
Sometimes animals have to be used as tools. It’s not my place in this crazy, mixed-up universe to question that. Still, I can’t help but feel sick for breaking the little cat’s neck.
I climb into Angela’s car and have to drive over the front lawn to avoid the stolen car in the driveway. It’s a nice ride-a couple of years old at the most. I wish I could keep it. The picture-perfect home that represents a picture-perfect family life grows smaller in my rearview mirror. The manicured lawn I can no longer smell looks like a miniature-golf course as I glance back at it. The rose from that lawn is warm in my pocket. I pass three or four parked cars. People are walking up driveways and arriving home. Two old women talk over a low fence about whatever it is old women face in life. Another old woman on her knees painting her mailbox. A young boy delivering the community paper. People are at home here, and they are at peace. They don’t know me and pay no attention as I drive past their windows and out of their lives.
Technically we’re approaching the middle stages of autumn, but nobody has told Mother Nature, so we’re all still experiencing the heat of summer. It hasn’t rained in over a month. None of the trees are getting ready for the winter and losing their leaves. Some of those leaves right now are rustling above me in a light breeze, attached to a line of birch trees that grow from the sides of the road and make an arch overhead where fingerlike branches interlock. Birds are at play up there. In the distance, I can hear lawn mowers closing out the afternoon and starting the evening. This is going to be a beautiful night. It’s going to be the type of night that makes me glad to be alive. The type of night New Zealand summers are famous for. Just not normally in April.
Finally I begin to relax. I turn on the car stereo and hear the same damn song that was playing in Angela’s house. What are the chances? I hum along, singing my way into the evening. My thoughts turn from Fluffy to Angela, and only then does the smile come back to my face.
CHAPTER FOUR
I live in an apartment complex that would be worth more if sold as scrap. Because of its location, it will never be torn down and replaced because a new apartment complex isn’t going to fetch any more rent. It isn’t exactly the worst part of town, according to those who live here, but it is according to everybody else. It’s barely habitable, but it’s cheap, so that’s the trade-off. The complex is four stories high, covers the best part of a block, and I live on the top, giving me the best part of a very poor view. In total I think there are maybe thirty apartments.
I see none of my neighbors as I make my way upstairs, but this is neither bad nor uncommon. I find myself dwelling on poor Fluffy as I unlock the door and walk inside. My apartment has two rooms. One of these is a bathroom, and the other a combined everything else. The fridge and stove look so old I doubt carbon dating would identify an age. The floors are bare and I have to wear shoes all the time to avoid splinters. The walls have cheap, dark gray wallpaper so dry that it crumbles a little bit more every time I open my door and create a draft. Several edges of it have peeled away and hang like flat tongues. A set of windows runs along one wall where my view consists of power lines and burned-out cars. I have an old washing machine with a noisy spin cycle, and hanging on the wall above it is a dryer that’s just as loud. Along the window is a line where I hang my washing during the summer. Currently nothing is hanging on it.
I own a single bed, a small TV, a DVD player, and some basic furniture that’s sold in a box with assembly instructions in six different languages. None of it sits straight, but I don’t know anybody who would visit to complain. Select romance paperbacks that I’ve read are dumped on my sofa. The covers are full of strong-looking men and weak-looking women. I throw my briefcase on top of them before checking my answering machine. The light is blinking, so I push play. It’s my mother. She’s left a message telling me about her powers of deduction. She believes that since I’m not home, and not at her place, it means I have to be on the way to her place.
I said earlier, “God rest her soul.” I didn’t mean she’s dead. She soon will be, though. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a bad guy or anything, I would never do anything to harm her, and I’m disgusted at anyone who would think otherwise. It’s just that she’s old. Old people die. Some sooner than others. Thank God.
I glance at my watch. It’s already six thirty. It’s starting to get dark. I make room on the sofa, stretch my arms out behind me, and try to relax. Think about what’s best for me. If I don’t go to my mother’s for dinner the results will be disastrous. She will ring me every day. Nag me for hours on end. She is unaware I have a life. I have responsibilities, hobbies, places I want to go, people I want to do, but she doesn’t see it. She thinks I live just to sit around my apartment waiting for her to call.