Killer

Slicing him open wasn’t really an option; Marissa couldn’t stand the sight of blood. In fact, she cringed anytime she saw a sharp knife, so the thought of shoving a blade into someone over and over again to kill them was one that sent her to the bathroom to vomit.

Shooting him would be just too chaotic, she figured. Plus with her luck, the bullet wouldn’t hit him properly and he wouldn’t die. And Marissa knew if there was anything she had to get done right, it was killing her husband Stan.

She plotted for days, months. She thought about all the movies and TV shows she’d seen, all the books she’d read that involved a killer. She was going to become one: a killer. It’s not that she was going to go around killing all men named Stan; but she knew she would go to prison, she knew she’d be labeled as a killer once she did it.

Killer. Marissa Mercoli, killer. Husband killer.

The idea of going to prison frightened her, but the idea of living her life knowing that her own fucking husband raped her when she was a child… Marissa felt submerged in a deep black hole. She felt trapped. The only light she could see and grasp was that which would come after killing the prick who raped her when she was only 9 years old.

“The gig is up, fucker,” she thought, squeezing out a bottle of eye drops into his carton of orange juice he always finished within three days.

***

Poor, poor Stan.

Marissa looked down at him, pants around his ankles as he lay in a fetal position on the blue tile floor next to the toilet.

“Did you really think I’d never figure it out?” she asked him, shaking her head. “Stupid fuck.” She kicked at his feet.

The paramedics came first, quickly followed by the police. Marissa was handcuffed and put into the back seat of a squad car.

At the station, Marissa was pushed into a cell until a gruff female guard finally came to unlock the gate and called to her: “Mercoli?”

The guard took Marissa to a secluded room and told her to take off her clothes. “Underwear too,” the guard barked.

Standing in the dank room, Marissa was ordered to raise her arms as the female guard snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started feeling around her naked body to see if anything was hidden.

“Open your mouth,” the guard ordered next. “Flip the top lip… the bottom… lift up the tongue.”

Marissa kept thinking about when she was 9–if she could survive that, she could survive this.

“Lemme see the souls of your feet.”

Marissa lifted a foot behind her.

“Other one.”

Marissa eyed the orange uniform neatly folded on the bench and prayed for the guard to tell her to put it on.

“Bend over for me, please.”

Marissa started thinking that maybe she should’ve called 9-1-1 sooner and gone into hysterics over finding her husband passed out on the floor of the bathroom, instead of nonchalantly calling hours after he died and shedding no tears.

“Cough.”

Tears seeped from Marissa’s eyes as she let out a whimper of a cough.

“Put on your uniform and lessgo.”

Marissa draped herself in the orange uniform and shuffled down the hall back into the cell where she waited for someone to tell her what to do next.

_____________________________________________

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if interested, you can find more from Marissa’s story HERE.

oh how I miss you

Expiring isn’t an option; when time’s up, it’s up.
I closed my eyes that day and prayed for peace.
Your mouth dropped open and that was it… No more pain.
No more life.
That wasn’t what I meant.

__________________________

funk

It doesn’t take long after losing a ton of weight when you get into a funk of sorts… when the high you get from people telling you how great you look wears off after your loss starts stalling. You want to lose more, of course, but you just can’t. (Dammit. Now what?) You want to revert back to your old ways of dealing with a funk—food. Glorious food: chips, burgers, fries, pizza, cookies, ice cream. But if you do that you won’t be able to stop, and then you’ll start gaining all that fucking weight back. (At least it will fill in the sagging skin?) Instead of eating away at the funk, you start drinking. Not enough to become a drunk, but enough to feel good. (All the time.) You start calling into work because you just can’t get out of bed; because when you do, you’ll need a drink and then another. Just enough to feel good, to feel that high you once had when people stopped you to tell you how awesome you were looking before the stall.

Soon you start noticing the creases in your forehead are getting deeper. You think about getting onto one of those makeover shows where they, for free, surgically remove the flabby loose skin from the weight loss and shoot the creases in your forehead up with Botox. (What are the chances of you getting chosen for something like that though?) It’s maddening to you because all you want is to feel good, to feel content with your body, your face.

But the skin. The flab. The creases. They get more and more noticeable, and, by god, one morning when looking at your face in the mirror, the creases on your forehead start taunting you. Motherfuckers. You grab the scissors kept in the medicine cabinet and start slicing into those creases. Blood starts pouring from your incisions, clouding your vision. But you keep going.

Anything to get out of this funk.

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{a little piece of flash fiction inspired by the FUNK word prompt at trifecta}

 

why not?

“No one could ever know what happened here,” I told her as she grabbed her clothes from the floor and put them on. She didn’t say anything, just grabbed all her stuff and walked out the door. Just the way I like it.

A week later, I saw her again. Same bar, same bar stool. Drinking another dirty martini, she started groping at me, asking me to take her back to my place again. I knew I could get what I wanted from her so I was game. Why not? This time, I entered from behind, pushing her against the couch, shoving her face into the couch pillows to smother the screams. Stupid little whore wants to play with me, she can take it in the ass.

After, I told her I was going to bed and she could show herself out. She did.

I really thought that would be the end of seeing her; clearly she wouldn’t go back to O’Reilly’s Pub on South Street the following week.

I was wrong.

Barely in from off the street, I immediately noticed the back of her curly hair. Quickly, I snuck into a booth and watched her a bit. I wanted to see if she’d let someone else pick her up. A couple different guys approached, but left almost immediately. I was going to just leave, not wanting her to get the wrong idea if she saw me, but meh, why not?

“Back for more?” I said, while looking at the bartender to order a drink of my own.

She didn’t say anything but I was pretty sure she was smiling. With a drink in my hand, I started to leave and she grabbed my arm. “Wait,” she said.

“This is what you want?” I asked her.

This time I saw the smile to know for sure. She looked so young in that moment. Too young. And I immediately got hard.

“Fine,” I said, tossing back the Johnny Walker. Oh the warmth.

I slipped the glass onto the bar and grabbed her hand. When we got outside I pushed her against the door of the next building  and kissed her hard.

“You gotta do something for me though.”

“Okay?”

“I’m gonna give you some money,” I told her, finding the big bills in my wallet. “A-lotta money. And you’re gonna go where I tell you to and tell them I sent you. They’re gonna give you a paper bag, like a lunch bag, and you’re gonna give them the money an’ come back out here to me.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t look in the fucking bag alright? An’ don’t look around much when you get in there. Just go in, find the guy behind the counter, tell him my name and leave with the bag.”

I looked at her and she looked different. Even younger than before.

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty eight, why?”

“You gonna be able to do this or what?”

“Um, yeah. I guess. Sure.”

We walked around the corner to the Chinese take-out joint and I sent her in and waited and not more than a minute or two later, she came out holding the bag.

“Is there at least some food in here?” she asked.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I took her back to my place and fucked her before I showed her what was in the bag—an eight ball of coke. We snorted a couple of lines and fucked again and I realized I was in a fucking relationship with someone I didn’t really care about who I couldn’t shake. And she was okay with me doing whatever the fuck I wanted to do to her. The kinkier the better it seemed. So why not?

Had I known I’d be trying to hide her fucking body a couple months later, I would’ve known why not.

____________________

This piece of FICTION is inspired from this week’s speakeasy prompt as well as the unbelievably true and disturbing story of the missing woman from Milwaukee, Kelly Dwyer.

if it’s public, it’s open for judgement

Dear Dipshit ex-SIL,

Did you know your Facebook profile is open to the public? Did you know there are people who go around stalking Facebook profiles? Creepers like me? Did you? Well, now you do. You’re welcome. Tighten up that shit, would you?

For a while now, I’ve actually enjoyed the fact that you openly Facebook. I’ve enjoyed your reiteration of how ignorant you are. I’ve enjoyed reading proof that your love of alcohol and partying still is a top priority in your life.

But now I see that you’re in a relationship again. Actually, you’ve hinted around for some time now, but then just last month, it became “official” on Facebook. You and he are in a relationship. You’ve both even changed your profile pictures to match: an image of the two lovebirds. So sweet.

I wonder what is wrong with him? He seems like a decent guy. From what I can tell he’s the sole custody parent of two young children, around 10 and a newly-turned 5-year-old girl who no longer wears pull-ups to bed. At first I thought he was a weekend dad, but then I found the baby mama’s profile and she’s several states away and since I can see dad was at Red Robin with the kids on Wednesday night, it’s obvious the kids are with dad and their baby mama is … much like you. Well, at least much like you were back in the day.

That’s what I don’t get. You left your kids when they were 9 and 4. You left them. You wanted to party so you left them with their dad. You picked them up on some weekends but you worked most of those weekends. Then you kept the 9-year-old one weekend and returned the 4-year-old. Do you remember this? You must. I mean, how could you forget leaving your 4-year-old with his dad like he was a borrowed shirt and keeping the 9-year-old with you as if she was your only child? You did do this though and man, was it fucked. It still is. It’s been over 15 years now and it’s still a super fucked up thing you did. And you did it over and over again. You’d pick the boy up for the weekend, work, the older girl would watch the boy, then you’d bring him back to his dad’s house, like a load of laundry being dropped off. That’s exactly how you treated that boy. Like a load of fucking laundry you drop off at the cleaners for them to wash and dry and fold. Then when you were ready and needing some clean clothes, you pick them up. Like you picked up the boy on occasional weekends.

How fucked up. I mean, I cannot be the only person who sees that as being fucked up. You weren’t there when he learned to ride a bike without training wheels; you weren’t there when he learned to tie his shoes, when he aced his first spelling test, when he scored his first soccer goal, when he had his first school show. You weren’t there, period.

And yet, I type your fucking name into the search bar on Facebook and see pictures of you with your latest boyfriend’s 5-year-old as the two of you frolic in the snow. What the fuck?! Your page is open for all to see. Don’t you know your now 22-year-old boy can see that? Does it not even click in your head that, golly gee, you did NONE of that with him??

What the fuck is wrong with you? And what’s wrong with your boyfriend? Your vag must be made of Nutella or something. I just don’t get it, and I’m tired of trying to get it so do us all a favor, set your Facebook to private. Please.

Yours,

Just another Facebook Creeper