It was less dramatic than I had envisioned. I had imagined groans, yells, pleads for mercy, but there was none of it. The most I heard was a pitiful groan as I plunged the cold, serrated blade into his gut. He knew it was coming, knew but did nothing to protect himself. He let me stab him willingly, almost praying to do it quickly, having nothing more to gain from another day, each breath becoming a burden.

I had loved him, or so I thought, when I first saw him that night at the club. I had just turned twenty-one a few months before, and since then, I had become  regular at all the hotspots, enjoying the life of a single woman, single but beautiful. I say that not because I’m vain, but because it was the truth.

He was older, much older, nearing forty. He was lean and fit, and had a roguish smile to match his boyish looks. He was unshaven, but fashionably so, with a touch of gray that punctuated his demeanor. He was older. He had lived, but he was raring for another adventure, it was evident in the glint in his eye.

I fell for him, though my friends warned me about him. “He’s a whore,” my friend Sandy whispered in my ear as he made eyes with me. “A total pussy hound,” agreed Lana.”

But I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to him. It was as if here was a force between us, a gravity that pulled us together, or a strange magnetism that only worked on me. In spite of the warnings my friend told me, I met him, danced with him, and before I was even aware of it, moaning as he hiked up my skirt to enter me behind the club. It was not romantic in the least, but it was risky and adventurous, and I had always wanted to be that kind of girl.

He used me, and I knew it. He used me and discarded me. I didn’t mind in the least. I had used him as well. I didn’t see him for months, but then one night I was him, at another club, leading another conquest out the door before he saw me. He recognized me, winked, and with the merest nod, motioned for me to join. I did.

This time we made it to a studio apartment not far from the club. It was hers. I had never been with a woman, but with him there it came naturally. It went on for hours, and after it was done, I left with him, leaving the other behind as though she was simply a toy that had worn out its usefulness.

So we started dating. I call it dating, but I don’t really know what it was. I was faithful to him, but he slept around, no questions asked. Sometimes I joined, but most of the time I didn’t. After a few months he moved in with me, and again no questions asked. I got pregnant within another month, and he forced me to abort the baby, though I was strictly pro-life. I couldn’t say no to him. Denying him was not an option.

I could go on, but sufficed to say that this went on for years. I dropped out of school, found a job, and supported the both of us on my meager wages. I lost contact with my family after they refused to support me with my decision to drop out and support my man. At the time I didn’t understand, but I came to realize that I was being used, but that was years down the line.

What opened my eyes, I’m ashamed to admit, was discovering his other girls around town. I’m not talking the one-night stands. I knew about those, but it was learning that he had other women supporting him, other homes where he lived. I wasn’t even his main girl, but a side bitch that he used whenever his wife threw him out. I never knew he was married. I had learned not to ask questions.

When he turned up, we got into a fight, our first, and I demanded that he leave and never come back. It wasn’t pleasant, mainly because he didn’t tolerate my nonsense, as he called it. He hit me, and not for the first time. He pushed me down, punched me repeatedly in the stomach, and slapped me hard enough to leave a handprint on my right cheek, but not quite enough to bruise me.

I tried to get away, but he pulled me back, laughing as he did so, calling me his little cunt, and used me right there. I had grown accustomed to his being rough with me, but this went beyond his usual treatment. This was revenge for me daring to stand up to him. He was punishing me for trying to question his manhood. He believed it was his right to sleep with as many women as possible. He claimed it as a God-given command.

When he left, he threatened that if I called the police, that he would make sure that not only would I suffer for it, but that my parents, who I had not seen in years, would bear the brunt of his displeasure. They would die horrific deaths, and that I would be forced to watch. I was his to use, and I had better learn my place.

I cried when he left. I curled up in the shower, letting the water cascade over my battered body, attempting to wash away what he had did to me. After the hot water was used up, I stood up, shivering as the cold water hit me, waking me up to the truth of my situation. I shut off the water, looked at myself for the first time in years. I looked horrible. I was not even twenty-five, but I looked forty, and not in a good way.

I called in to work and plotted my revenge. I was planning on waiting for him to return, whether that night or a week, as it was not unusual for him to disappear for days at a time. I planned on letting him use me, and when the time was right, to cut off his manhood. I wanted him to lose his gift to women. I wanted him to be useless.

And the moment came, and I chickened out. I couldn’t do that to him. It was cruel, and I had allowed myself to fall for it all. I was to blame for it all, though to call him innocent was beyond ridiculous. He needed to suffer, and as he started to leave, I called out to him, cold steel in my hand, and thrust it forward when he turned to face me.

I felt the rush of adrenaline as I felt his blood run down my hand. He shuddered as he tried to remain upright, groaning as I pushed the blade even further. It lasted only moments before he buckled and fell to the floor, grabbing my wrist and dragging me down with him. He didn’t say a word, but held fast as he struggled to breath. He looked me in the eye, forcing me to watch as something in him dimmed and then was gone. One moment he was there, and then he wasn’t.

I looked down on him, angry at the anti-climax of the moment. I had killed him, but there was nothing to show for it, no pleading for his life, no apologies for his actions. He died without so much of a betrayal of emotion. I wondered as I stared at his corpse, whether he had wanted someone to become a murderer because of him. I laughed.

I was found laughing on the floor next to him, though I have no recollection. I had killed him and didn’t bother to close the door. My neighbor saw me laughing hysterically, or so I’ve been told, laughing and crying, rocking back and forth and wringing my hands. I had the appearance of a deranged woman, and maybe I am.

I feel no remorse for killing him, only for having lost all those years because of him. I reconnected with my family, and they are fighting for my life, for my freedom, but I confess I don’t care much about that or anything. I’ve lost something of myself when I killed him. I’ve become untethered to this existence, and maybe that’s why I’m in this place, enduring one doctor after another, suffering through one therapist after another.

I don’t feel much at all, other than a faint shadow of guilt for putting my family through all this. I don’t feel much at all, anymore. I can still feel him, from beyond the veil, pulling me with him. I can feel his fingers around my wrist, and I yearn to join him, hating him for it, but I cannot resist. I am powerless to say no, and I’m compelled to obey.

Short Stories

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Previous story – Chance Encounter

Our eyes locked unexpectedly as we stood in line at the DMV. I recognized her at once, even after more than two decades. I could tell she was struggling to place me, and I had no intention of helping her along. The pain she inflicted on me was not something I would ever forget, though it had long since stopped being a source of suffering.

We met twenty-three years ago, she having started working towards her Master’s in Nursing. I was a struggling undergraduate, in spite of the fact that I was a few years older than her. She came from a wealthy family, with all the attendant privileges you might expect. Needless to say, though I’m going to say it, she never had to worry about money, or how she was going to pay for her tuition and other expenses.

I, on the other hand, was a product of extreme poverty. I grew up in a poor family, with parents who also came from poor families. Schooling was tolerated only because it was mandated, and my family had no use for book learning. I, however, yearned for more. I wanted nothing more than to escape the soul-crushing reality of our existence.

So I worked hard, earned a few scholarships, but otherwise had to work to make ends meet. Sometimes I had to skip a semester in order to save up enough money to continue. I could have taken out loans, but my family preached against that, and at the time I fell for their misguided belief. The upside to this was that I left college without the immense debt that saddled many of my fellow students.

I was working as a janitor at the time, spending most of my time in the Medical building cleaning the restrooms, classroom, and occasionally the labs. I was cleaning the biology lab at the time, trying to get done early so I could go to my room to study, when a group of graduate students, led by Liz, walked in. I could sense trouble was brewing from the moment I saw her.

Like I mentioned, Liz was a product of a privileged upbringing, and she carried herself that way. She was the blond, tall, and statuesque, and usually traveled in a pack of no less than half a dozen hangers on, mostly other women like her, but sometimes men hoping for a chance to get her into bed.

I was tall, though lanky and of the wrong race and color. My brown skin seemed at odds with the student body in the medical center, discounting the foreign students. I was the stereotypical janitor, and they treated me with as much contempt as they could muster.

On our first meeting, she remarked that the only way a spic could ever be allowed into the medical center was to sweep the floors and wash the shit stains out of the toilets. Her coterie laughed sycophantically as I kept my head down and tried to finish sweeping the floors.

I made to leave but Liz blocked the way.

“Do you comprede dumbass?” She laughed.

“I understand quite well, thank you” I enunciated through gritted teeth.

“A spic with a brain,” she smirked. “Now where do you pick up the ability to speak? Been watching BBC instead of Telemundo?” Her clique laughed again.

“No,” I said, anger coursing through my veins. “I’m a Business major, minoring in English. I’m a student here. I graduate in December.”

“Affirmative action student, huh?” She smirked. “Gotta meet those pesky quotas, like my grandfather always says. He was a Senator in D.C., you probably heard of him, Senator….”

“I know exactly who he is,” I spat. “He worked to expand welfare, didn’t he? Working tirelessly to enslave the underprivileged.”

“Ungrateful,” she mused. “Probably kept your ass from dying of hunger. How many lived in your house? Twelve? Twenty?”

I shoved her aside and raced out of the room as she continued launching one taunt after another after me. This continued all semester, not bothering to stop even in the presence of a professor. They half-heartedly admonished her, but her grandfather was an alumni and a benefactor. They didn’t want to risk losing the donations he lobbed their way.

***

I tried not to think about her treatment, but I confess that it was next to impossible, especially with her turning to look at me every few minutes. I kept my eyes resolutely focused on the employee at the window, counting down the number of people in line, but Liz would look away and return her gaze to me, determined to figure out how she knew me.

This went on for nearly half an hour before her eyes grew wide in recognition, and she flushed with embarrassment. She turned to face the head of the line, hoping to disappear into the crowd, but it was a lost cause. I knew who she was and the source of her embarrassment. I admit that I enjoyed her discomfiture more than I should have.

It took nearly another half hour before the line wound down and she made it to the agent. Once done, she quickly departed and another five minutes I was at the window, renewing my driver’s licence. When I left, I found her waiting outside, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, steeling herself for the encounter I had hoped would not happen. I was greatly disappointed as he called my name.

“Diego,” she said nervously.

“Wow, I think that’s the first time you called me by the correct name,” I said without a trace of sympathy. “Usually you called me by the wrong name or else a series of ever more insulting slurs.”

Her wan smile faltered and she looked away, on the verge of tears. “I guess I deserve that,” she cried, her voice quivering with emotion.

“How are you?” I said, allowing a thaw in my tone to appear.

“I’ve been better,” she chuckled nervously. “You?”

“Never been better,” I smiled.

I took in her appearance, and it contrasted greatly with how I remembered her. As a student, she was young and thin, and now middle age did not agree with her. Where once she was dressed impeccably, she looked frumpy. It was less with how she dressed and how she carried herself. There was no pride in her, slouched over as though she wanted to hide from the world.

“I heard you were back in the area,” she said. “Vice President of Operations for the Southwest Region. You’ve done well.”

“Been lucky,” I say humbly, though we both know it was anything but luck that propelled me to my current position. “Right place, right time. You know how it goes. And how’s it been going with you?”

I see her smile falter as she looks away, and she seems distant as she replied. “Not as well as you, I’m afraid.”

“How so?”

“Divorced,” she says with a barking laugh, as though she’s seeing the absurdity of our meeting. “Ex-husband, the once great Dr. Plough sued for malpractice, arrested for medicare fraud. His practice closed, and my reputation in tatters because I worked with him in the clinic. Never mind that I had nothing to do with the fraud,” she huffed, “nevermind that it was him and his business director that did it all, I took the fall with him. Unemployable, my degrees in nursing and hospital administration not worth the paper they’re printed on.”

“So what are you doing now?”

“Working at a dry cleaners down the way,” she waved vaguely west. “Bought it with what was left with my savings. Family refuses to help me, saying it would ruin their reputation. Brother’s running for a House seat this November. I’m getting by, but barely.”

“That sucks,” I say, feeling sorry for my one-time tormentor.

“It’s not all bad, I suppose,” she said without meeting my eye. “I’m not in prison like my ex is, and I’m able to pay my bills, though I had to part with my dream home. I live in a studio apartment, but at least I’m not homeless, right?”

“Yeah,” I responded, the ache in my chest intensifying.

“So, anyways. I didn’t wait to bitch about how my life’s going. I – I’ve been thinking about you a lot over the years.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, and I’m ashamed of how I treated you. I was raised better than that. Took me a few years to realize how much of a bitch I was to you. Took me working a few years at the downtown clinic to realize how hard minorities have it, and how bad poverty affects people. It opened my eyes to how remarkable someone has to be to rise above that. A lot of them don’t.”

“It’s not easy,” I agreed.

“For what it’s worth, Diego, I’m sorry. I was a bitch, a rich, white, ignorant and blatantly bigoted bitch. I guess karma took care of me. Look where we are now, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she fidgeted. “So, listen, I have to get back. I have some paperwork to do.”

She turned and began to walk away, and I struggled with myself for a moment before stopping her, “Hey, wait up!” She stopped and I ran to catch up. “There’s an opening,” I began, “in one of our area hospitals for Director of Nursing.”

“I’ve stopped applying,” she replied miserably. “What’s the point?”

“The point is,” I countered crossly, “is that I’m V.P., and I can pull a few strings, get your foot in the door. Pay is only in the low hundred thousands,” I shrugged as she wrapped her arms around me, tears streaming down her cheek. “Don’t thank me yet. I can’t guarantee you the job.”

“That’s fine,” she hiccupped. “I’ll do anything. Truth is, I’m on the verge of losing my business. I’m probably going to  file for Chapter 7 before the end of the year. After that?” She finished with a shake of her head.

“Well,” I mused, looking at her with interest. “If you’re willing to do anything….”

“I am,” she interrupted eagerly.

I ran my fingers down her face and she didn’t resist my advance. Instead she moved in, wanting nothing more than to do whatever she had to get out of her predicament. I pulled her in, kissed her, and whispered, “Meet me in my office. Suite 1011, seventeenth floor, Stevenson Building. Wear something suitable for an interview, but on the sexy side. If you need an advance, I can front you something.”

“Don’t worry,” she cried happily. “I have something I’m sure you’ll love.”

“Three-thirty,” I informed her, excitement building for our rendezvous.

“I’ll be there. Thank you.” She hurried away, a bit of her old pride evident in her posture, and in the glow in her face. Of course I had no intention of getting her the job, but then again, why not? She was still the granddaughter of an ex-senator, sister to the likely next member of the House. She could prove useful as an ally, and after my divorce with my soon to be ex, marrying into her family could help me in turn. I have political ambitions of my own, and what better revenge than to use my once tormentor to help me with my goals?

Short Stories

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