Brought to Book
'And the nun said, ’only on a Friday'
Jane wasn’t getting it. The easy ebb and flow of social commentary was lost on her tonight. Coming out had been a mistake. Normally she would never dream of missing a night out with the usuals. It didn’t matter when she received a text, she was always one of the first to reply in the affirmative. Then of course she would regret saying yes as soon as she visited the cash machine and saw the state of her finances. The thought of missing all that quality evening television would almost have her reaching for her mobile to cancel, but not quite.
‘Fuck it I need a drink’ was the usual persuader. First answer is always right. You hum and you hah and you ultimately lose out so forget all the pointless analysing and get your arse in the pub.
Tonight, however, it was different. The shit jokes from Mongo just irritated her. His deliveries made her grit her teeth and she found herself gripping the stale, stained stool to avoid reaching over and hollering in his face to stop the noise emanating from his person. The banal bar debates of Spanish football, obscure British bands and the use of beer mats was making her teeth ache and was beginning to overwhelm her. Yeah she shouldn’t have come out. She needed to leave at once. If only to prevent the humiliation that she knew would occur if she was to remain in her friends company. It was a matter of time before they realised just how off her game she was tonight and punished her for it. Jane made her feeble excuses and ran with only the sound of bewildered amusement to keep her company on the walk home. She shouldn’t have gone out. She shouldn’t have drunk. She shouldn’t have been there. Actually if she was all about shouldn’t then she really shouldn’t have killed him. Bloody hell…..she’d killed him.
Bypassing the door that led to her living room was difficult. Normal life means routines, monotony, knowing what is coming next. Its solid and it's what she lived by. Except of course when she exterminates someone, feels their life-force literally weaken in her grasp. His clock stopped ticking. He ceased to exist. That FUCKING BASTARD! He was still there decomposing in her living room. It was her sanctuary. Nothing special, just the area in which she lived her life. Where she relaxed and let the thoughts of the day drift through her mind. Analysed it all. Laughed at it. He was polluting it with his being. But then of course he wasn’t being anymore, and she was shattered.
Now she was stuck. Without entering she could picture the scene. Her minds eye retreated from the internal haemorrhage in his brain. She could hear the squelch of grey matter as skull fractured its blood heavy, spongy mass. Following the sticky, slick of blood running down his face, filling the overlarge pores. Smoothing out the creases around his eyes and covering him like some macabre death mask.
“Christ I watch too much C.S.I.”
Backing away from the terror she headed to the kitchen and began mindlessly opening and slamming doors and cupboards. Finally she settled on a large wine glass and wrestled with the cork of an overpriced cheap bottle from the corner shop. The adrenalin and fear was wearing off leaving just the alcohol to calm her nerves and help to think things through. Although her thinking was drifting more towards her bed than to the matter at hand. She began to feel nauseous, how could she be ignoring this? What kind of emotional maelstrom was she in? Where was the fear, the guilt, the blind panic? Instead all she felt was disgust, disbelief and most of all anger. She was furious with herself and with him. He was so weak, pathetic even. There seemed to be no strength to him, no substance. He was a poor excuse for a human being, how could he really have expected to survive in the world he lived? But therein lies the problem. Surely that was also her fault. Not only did she slay him, she also reduced him to the pitiful creature that he had devolved into.
There was going to be no sleeping tonight. Just three metres away with nothing separating them but two inches of plaster board. As she looked towards it she could almost see through the awful floral print that she had inherited from the previous owner, and the death scene opened out before her. It was a crying shame that this is what her life was reduced to. Placing her drained glass on the counter she was slightly amused to notice that she had finished the bottle during her musings. It seemed to have boosted her resolve and she knew that it needed to be dealt with tonight. Cleaned up, cleared out, move on. However long and how ever hard it was going to be she had no choice but to carry on.
A sigh and push off from the counter on which she was leaning, deep breaths, closed eyes, clenched fists. She could do this; she didn’t need anyone to hold her bloodstained hand. Ha - like she could really confide in anyone about this? As her hand closed around the handle her heartbeat began to quicken. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there feeling it race whilst her hand grew clammy and cramped where it gripped the door for dear life. This was it, this time she was going to enter.
Her eyes slowly acclimatised to the musty dankness and a bolt of confidence rushed through her, propelling Jane into the mausoleum. She crept towards her destination wanting nothing more than to run from her task. As she looked down at her laptop the cursor was still there in the same place that it had been when she had realised what she had done. She thought it strange that this was the last thing she remembered before fleeing from the life that she had known. But there it was, blinking at her and daring her to carry on. She had killed the man that had been her constant companion for the last five years of her life.
A fury of literary euphoria had wiped him from the core of her mind. How would the story carry on without him?
(c) Emma Redgrave 2008