The buzzing bees in his head, how could he think?
He could just burn the place down. That would be easier. This house was filled with her taint. Lingering memories. How long had she been lying to him, pretending she was one thing while being another, destroying every stone in the foundation of their marriage? Twisting the evidence to show what she wanted him to see. Misdirection, lies, destruction…The bees dropped away into the hives of his imagination as inspiration struck him. “Ah, Carolyn…you always were my muse.” He lifted her body and placed her on the bed. “I will make them see what I want them to see, what they want to see.” He kissed her one last time. “Goodbye, Linnie.”
He tore down the lace curtains and ripped them into shreds. Wrapped them around her arms and tied her hands to the bed. Misdirection.
He went downstairs and found whiskey and scotch in the great room. He considered a tumbler or a shot glass, but really, what’s the point of that? He took a drink, straight from the bottle, then another, and another, and another, stopping only after the eighth chug. His sinuses burned and his eyes fogged up inside his retinas. One stiff swallow for every year they were married. It would make hurting himself easier.
He climbed back up the stairs and turned around, staring down the steps to the tiled foyer below.
Fuck, he had to be insane to do this. He walked backwards until his back hit the wall. He didn’t feel as drunk as he had hoped. He wished he could remember how to pray. Fuck it, after all this, he had to belong to the Devil now. He dashed to the top of the stairs and dived.
He felt every single step on the way down. His breath broke in pieces when he crashed onto his elbow somewhere around the sixth stair. He tumbled to a stop, legs splayed above him, and every ragged breath he drew burned like fire. Excellent, a couple broken ribs…that should add verisimilitude. He wheezed a short laugh. He gathered up his legs beneath him and carefully stood. A slight sprain in one ankle, hopefully many bruises. No blood. He thought there would be blood, splatters and splatters. Like Alfred Hitchhock had tossed him down the stairs. Or something.
He staggered to the kitchen and found a kitchen lighter, one of those stupid-looking gun-like things made for grilling. He tucked it into the waist of his pants. He also dug out one of Carolyn’s prized damascene carving knives. Prized for extra sharpness. He grimaced. “Its like shaving, Just think it as shaving.” He sliced his eyebrow in half. It was a bare pinprick of pain compared to the rest of him. Hot blood rushed down his face. Verisimilitude. That should do it. Blood in the eyes stings like a bitch. He groped around for a rag and held it to his face. He didn’t know what else he could do to himself. Binding would require markings and evidence he had neither the time nor energy to make. He had to go with what he was able to do, and hope it would be enough to make it believable.
Fabrication. Misdirection. Now it was time for destruction.
He limped back up the stairs, every hop eliciting a sharp breath, every breath a gasp of pain. He held the rag to his eye. It wouldn’t do to get blood on the carpet up here. He stood next to the bed, looking down. He poured the remains of the whiskey and scotch on her face, her body, her clothes, her hair. The bedding turned brown.
He pulled on Carolyn’s ancient tweed coat. It was warmer than any coat he had ever owned. And it was her’s; he would like to keep something that was her’s with him.
“Well, Linnie. This is it; the descent into hell.” He struck the lighter and flame flared up, dancing in anticipation of the immolation yet to come. He set it to Carolyn’s alcohol-drenched brown hair. Flames rose up in an instant, consuming her face.
He watched the flames grow to engulf the bed that was once theirs. He breathed in the smoke deeply, welcoming the black cough. Soon enough he would “escape” to his neighbor’s house. What was his name—Joe? John? Jack—yes, Jack.
Jack, robbers are burning down my house. My wife—my wife!
Lies, lies, all of it lies, and every bit of it seeded with truth. Thieves broke in, cut him and tossed him down the stairs, and while he was unconscious, raped and killed his wife. And finding nothing to steal, burned the house down.
Lies and misdirection, lies and destruction. He closed the tweed coat around him and staggered back down the stairs, leaving the inferno behind.
He hoped it would work. And if it didn’t, well at least he had taken the chance. He would never have won and married Carolyn, if he hadn’t taken that chance.
Because she asked.
Because of length (1915 words or 7 pages) I have split this story into 2 parts.
Be warned, this chapter is dark and graphic. It is also in early first draft form; there are some revisions I have yet to make, so please excuse any clunky passages.
The woman’s pulse fluttered like a doomed butterfly under his fingers; every struggling beat an electric wind in his blood. Her throat swelled, searching for release, but instead he squeezed tighter. Her nails, manicured, pink with white tips, dug into his hands, and her bare feet kicked at his ankles.
He ignored the little beetle-like points of pain. All he cared about were her eyes. Her soft brown, doe-like eyes. Warm, like caramel. Deep, like mud. He stared into them now, her pupils wide and dark black against the brown, expanding ever wider and wider with every vain gasp for air. Defiance gave way to desperation in her eyes.
He focused on those eyes, so warm and dark, like a womb for his mind. If he did not, the voice inside his head would begin to scream. He could feel it there, sitting behind his eyes, a buzzing pressure, a buzzing presence, a buzzing buzzing buzzing bee inside his head. Always judging, always goading, always screaming.
The woman’s throat deflated. Her eyes turned black and slack. The pulse under his fingers fluttered raggedly, weakly, one last time. Then the buzzing bee went quiet.
Victor’s knees gave out from under him, and he fell, collapsing over the crumpled body of the woman.
Carolyn. Her name was Carolyn. She was so beautiful, even in death. Her warm caramel eyes were still as bright as the day he had married her. Just as bright, just as empty.
She had butterflies in her hair that day, bright blue wings dancing in the roses twined into her dark brown hair. The sweet scent of roses cocooned them when they made their vows—vows to hold faith and honor. Vows that apparently meant as little as the life of butterflies.
A storm of electric winds coursed in his veins. Fire and light. Light and life. Life and Chaos. Chaos and destruction.
He pushed himself back onto his knees. Carolyn’s body sprawled, a bloodless heap. Her silk robe splayed open, baring a large white breast and a soft belly. Her cunt was naked, shaved as bare as a girl’s. His hate was spent, but desire and anger still rode the wind in his blood.
She had never shaved for him.
“You beautiful, heartless, faithless fucking whore…”
He crouched over her and inhaled the scent of her perfumed hair. Her lips tasted of tears. He groped her breast, pinching a tepid nipple with one hand and stroked her bare cunt with the other. He had always wondered what it would feel like, hairless. Now he knew. It felt soft and smooth, like wet silk, or like crumpled rose petals. Her bright eyes stared at the ceiling.
His balls ached with the need for relief. He rubbed his thumb over his head and groaned. Heat consumed him, and he held his cock, squeezing it like he had squeezed Carolyn’s pretty white throat. He stroked his cock against her shaved pussy. Definitely like roses.
He remembered that scent of crushed roses the first time he had fucked her. She had dominated him from the beginning. Her sweet brown eyes had bored into his, as if daring him to impale her deeper, harder, faster. He remembered that he had come too soon.
“Ah, Carolyn…” He breathed into her dead ear. “I will always love you.” He slammed his cock into her cunt. Her head flopped over, limp as a rag doll. The slap of flesh against flesh echoed in the room. Blood roared in his head. “I loved you.” Slap. “As a boy…” Slap. “I loved…” Slap. “You from…” Slap. He grunted. “ Afar.” He paused and kissed her slack lips once more. “I fought for you Carolyn, and I married you.” He thrust hard into her again, grunting, sweat dripping down his back. “I still…” Slap. “Love…” Slap. “You…you…fucking…bitch…whore!”
He groaned and shot himself inside her. He panted, all fire and light and strength spent with his cum. His eyes hurt and the buzzing started again. The blasted buzzing, why wouldn’t it stop? “You never loved me at all, did you, Linnie?”
He stood, the buzzing loud behind his eyes. She was dead, and it felt…right. Her white body sprawled on the pink carpet, his cum glistening on her unmoving flesh.
She was supposed to be nothing like his mother. His mother had been a drunk whore, a gold digging adulteress, worthless, vapid, and vain. Carolyn was better than that. Had been better. Warm to his mother’s coldness, dark chocolate brunette to his mother’s insipid platinum façade. How could she have done this?
“Who is he?” He had raged at her. She just smirked and smeared bright red clown makeup on her lips.
“What business is it of yours, Victor? You’ve got your own boytoys; let me have mine. What—don’t act so outraged and innocent, Victor-dear.” And she had walked past him, rosebud lip curled up in a sneer.
How dare she? He had never been a faggot, ever, and he had never been unfaithful. She knew that—she had to have known that. It was just some cruel bitchy jab at his impotency. He wasn’t good in bed—he tried, he really tried—but he never could make her come. And every time he tried, the weaker he became, and after a while, he just stopped trying.
“Oh Carolyn, Linnie, love.” He started crying.
Now what? Oh god, he thought, I’ve killed her, and I’ve got no way to cover it up. No, no, no there’s got to be a way, there’s always a way. I can call the police and say thieves came in the house, tied me, killed and raped her. No, there’s no mark on me, who would believe that? Better she had killed herself, found her hanging in the shower.
He looked at the hand-shaped bruises on her neck and knew that wouldn’t work. Too many episodes of “Law and Order.” He had to make her disappear. Erase all evidence that she had died. That he had killed her. Stuff her in a freezer. Cut up her body. Take a fishing trip and dump her into the sea. Claim that she had left him. But wouldn’t they know—nobody just disappears for no reason.
Part two will be continued over the weekend.
Still alive, still around. But blogging is drawing a blank. I could talk about my lack of a social life, or my recent adventures in various doctors offices, or the lack of progress being made on the writing front, but none of that interests me right now. If any of you three readers I have left want to know anything about anything, go ahead and ask me a question. Maybe that will tickle my sweet spots.
No, really, go ahead. I don’t bite.
UPDATE: Thanks dear readers! That helps, cuz now I have committed myself to writing at least three more posts, and posting a writing excerpt for Claire. Sometimes we–meaning I–need some externally imposed direction. Expect some burbling over the next week.
And of course, any other lurkers out there, ASK ME ANYTHING ABOUT ANYTHING. Help a girl out, why dontcha.
This photo from lolcats amused me.
Rain, rain, fog, and rain.
If this is Oregon, then
Where’s all the hipsters?
Ode to Bananas
Yellow and phallic
Thou art so perfectly formed
To fit in ape hands.
Breakfast in the Jungle
Vending machine down.
Jesus rollerblading Christ
I needs my chocolate.
As if I would ever be raptured. I’m an atheist. I have had sex before marriage. I think queer people are awesome, that marijuana should be legal, and women should have agency over their bodies. Also, I curse like sailor.
Besides, I have too much shit to do; I’ve got no time for this ascending nonsense. I’ve got art to make, a book or 10 to write, movies to watch, and Adele songs to learn. I’ve recently discovered Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and I’m learning it so that I can hear it without my eyes. I am also drinking wine, eating fish, and being appreciative of my life and my body. Even if rapturing was possible why would I want to be?
Look down and see
The beggars at your feet.
Look down and show
Some mercy if you can.
Look down and see
The sweepings of the street.
Look down, look down
Upon your fellow man.
–A song from the show Les Miserables
Earlier this week, the inestimable junior senator from Kentucky, a Libertarian and Tea Party darling, and a self-certified ophthalmologist, equated the notion of a right to health care with that of enslavement of medical professionals.
“With regard to the idea of whether you have a right to health care, you have realize what that implies. It’s not an abstraction. I’m a physician. That means you have a right to come to my house and conscript me. It means you believe in slavery. It means that you’re going to enslave not only me, but the janitor at my hospital, the person who cleans my office, the assistants who work in my office, the nurses. … You have a right to beat down my door with the police, escort me away and force me to take care of you? That’s ultimately what the right to free health care would be,” – Senator Rand Paul.
(emphasis mine) Quote source: Andrew Sullivan
Here’s a video: Rand Paul Expresses an Opinion
I am shocked, nay—appalled that a physician trained at a reputable medical school (Duke University) would so cavalierly suggest that the Hippocratic Oath is mere fluff, that it is permissible for a medical person to pick and choose whom he (or she) will so deign to “take care of.” Appalled that a physician would claim the right to deny care to anyone he deems unworthy of his vaunted expertise, for whatever reason he may contrive. Appalled that he would suggest that being required to do his job is enslavement.
No, Rand Paul. It is not enslavement to expect you to do the job to which you voluntarily signed up for when you became a physician. It is not enslaving doctors when we expect them to take care of people that need to be taken care of. It is not enslavement when we expect them to do their jobs, to be doctors. It is certainly not enslavement to try and create a system that will increase access to doctors and nurses and medicines for everyone who needs it.
For you see, Rand Paul, every person in this society has a role to play—such as parent, teacher, plumber, homeowner, soldier, student, banker, factory worker, senator, and physician. All these roles come with privileges and obligations. Let’s call these privileges ‘rewards,’ and these obligations ‘duties.’ When you adopt a role, you assume the duties as well as the rewards of that role. Taking up duties, by definition, means you relinquish certain liberties you may once have enjoyed. This is true no matter what role you take, whether as parent, plumber, soldier, doctor, or as senator. When you become a parent, you exchange the liberties of “me time” for the duties of raising a child. When you become a homeowner, you exchange the liberties of financial freedom for the duty to pay down your mortgage. When you become a physician, you exchange the liberty of seeing only those you want to see for the duty to give care to all who come to you as patients. When you became a senator you exchanged the liberty to speak for yourself for the duty to speak on behalf of all those people you represent—including those who disagree with you.
To say that you should not be forced to meet the obligations expected of your role because that infringes on your personal freedoms–that is tantamount to me telling my boss that I’m not going to do my paperwork because being required to so do so infringes on my liberty, my right to choose how I wish to do my job. Guess what, Rand Paul, if I ever dared say that I would rightly be fired, because we do not get to reap the rewards of duties not performed.
Perhaps you forgot the Hippocratic Oath?
- I swear to fulfill, to the best of my ability and judgment, this covenant
- I will respect the hard-won scientific gains of those physicians in whose steps I walk, and gladly share such knowledge as is mine with those who are to follow.
- I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures [that] are required, avoiding those twin traps of overtreatment and therapeutic nihilism.
- I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon’s knife or the chemist’s drug.
- I will not be ashamed to say “I know not,” nor will I fail to call in my colleagues when the skills of another are needed for a patient’s recovery.
- I will respect the privacy of my patients, for their problems are not disclosed to me that the world may know. Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God.
- I will remember that I do not treat a fever chart, a cancerous growth, but a sick human being, whose illness may affect the person’s family and economic stability. My responsibility includes these related problems, if I am to care adequately for the sick.
- I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.
- I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.
- If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.
I wish to repeat #9 again, because it bears repeating, Mr. Rand Paul:
I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.
To be a doctor is to take on the duty to care, Rand Paul. It is not enslavement. Do you even know what slavery is, Rand Paul?
Slavery is not just the absence of liberty. Slavery is the commodification of a person’s body, of all his or her abilities as well as life. Slavery is denying a person his or her personhood; denying a person the right to speak or vote; to literally sell a person’s body for money. Slavery is taking away all power a person has over his or her life.
When bodies are treated as commodities—that is slavery. When a body’s health becomes a source of revenue for others—that is when liberty is at risk; for it is when bodies become infirm that choices become restricted. When you deny a person access to health care, you deny them agency over their bodies and their health, and thus over their lives. You deny them the ability to make choices. That is more like slavery than requiring or even just expecting doctors to perform their Hippocratic duties ever will be.
Having a duty to others is not slavery, Rand Paul. When you conflate the two, you render the term and history of “Slavery” meaningless. You invalidate the entire notion of a social contract.Which I hasten to point out is the intellectual basis of our entire political society. Our Founding Fathers—the very men you Tea Party ideologues so revere—built our Constitution on the concept of a social contract. Which you now, with careless hyperbole and disregard for history, mock.
For shame, Rand Paul. Shame.
It all started when I exclaimed to my sister about just how DELICIOUS Josh Holloway looked as “The Black Rider” on Community last week, and how shocked I was because I found him repulsive as Sawyer on Lost. I was explaining that I found Sawyer, as a character annoying and trite, and that turned me off on the actor’s obvious beauty. But as “The Black Rider” he was sultry and mischeivous, not annoyingly petulant. As a result, he looks absolutely awesome to me.
Then somehow our conversation devolved into me finding pictures of other celebrities I find yummy, and posting them to my sister. It quickly became apparent that they ALL LOOK THE SAME.
Exhibit A: JOSH HOLLOWAY:
Exhibit B: EWAN MCGREGOR
Exhibit C: ADEWALE AKINNUOYE AGBAJE
Exhibit D: JOEL MCHALE
Exhibit E: COLIN FARRELL
Exhibit F: HUGH JACKMAN
Exhibit G: IAN SOMERHALDER
I seem to have a thing for dark, rugged, fuzzy faced men with full lips, a big chin, and a intense gaze. Oh, and former Lost stars. What the heck is up with that? Well, at least I am consistent.
Dear Persons of Irritating Comport;
1. If I am more than a few paces behind you, please don’t bother holding the door open for me. Seeing you waiting for me to step through makes me feel like I have to hurry and walk faster or run, and that kinda pisses me off. And then I am expected to be thankful for your courtesy? Yeah, that pisses me off too. Also, despite my apparent helplessness, I DO, in fact, know how to make doors work.
2. If you must have a conversation, please do not do it in the middle of the lane of traffic. Having to squeeze myself pass your yammering asses–yeah, that kinda pisses me off.
3. If I am walking, please do assume that I have somewhere to go. Do not stop me and then precede to “regale” me with your version of “small talk” or “chit chat”. If you see me edging away, take that as a cue to shut up. Being trapped by your flapping maw kinda pisses me off.
4. As much as being pissed off gives me something to write on my blog, I really don’t like being pissed off. It pisses me off. So please try not to Piss me off.
Thank you for your consideration.
I’m sitting on a bench in Riverside Park in Hartford, watching the swift current shimmer under a hazy sun. I’m biding my time here since I overestimated my ETA by an hour. I’m heading up to Northampton MA to meet some friends for a gay pride parade or something. I’m not sure really what to expect but I am looking forward to spending time with the girls.
It’s a nice park and there’s only two other people here: some guy walking around with a garbage bag and a dude on a boat.
I’m writing this post and taking these pictures from my new phone, an HTC evo, which I love! I’m hoping it doesn’t publish funny…