This [intlink id="232" type="post"]flash fiction[/intlink] piece was written as a companion piece to Switch Blade, published by Carrie White at tumblr. I was inspired to write this parallel of her engaging tale of a loving housewife’s unusual discovery…
I’ve always protected Meg. Ever since the early school years; ever since she walked up on me while I was finishing my ‘work’ with the Nelson’s dog, Scruffy.
From that moment on, I had to keep her close, because I didn’t really know if she saw what I was doing, but I wanted to survive. By keeping her close I could monitor her every move, and making her mine meant learning how to fake emotions and feign love. Keeping her close meant trying to be something I wasn’t.
I kept Meg so close that I had to deal with her best friend Karen when we were all 18 years old. I could only guess how much Meg told Karen about our youth and relationship, but my guessing validated my actions when Karen secretly confronted me about my strange ways.
Karen’s disappearance is still a mystery. But, not to me.
Now, we’re all grown up and I am out in the world working, while Meg dutifully stays home. This gives me a certain freedom to deal with those urges that have plagued me since my youth; since I tortured and killed that sparrow.
Today, I was stricken deeply by of one of those urges, and this one was overpowering. I needed to stroke the ego of the beast. Sitting at my desk I was watching the clock tick as if an anchor weighed upon the second hand. Watching the lunch hour drag itself through the door, I felt the sweat begin to grease my collar as I played out the scene in my racing mind. A scene I have fantasized about so many times, during so many lunch hours in the past.
Grab a woman, take her to the reservoir, slowly slice on her until she dies, grab a sandwich while heading back to the office and dispose of her body on the way home from work.
Curt, impersonal, sterile, nice. Only during those special lunch hours could I let my hair down and really be who I am.
At long last, the clock reached noon. I moved hurriedly to my sedan, threw the briefcase in the backseat and opened it to grab the tool that was the extension of my urges.
It was not there.
Spinning nausea overtook me as the urge began to strangle my cold black heart. Rage slammed me as I stood up and pounded my car.
“Where is the goddammed knife?”
Rage. Is anyone watching me?
Meg. Meg must have found it. She must have it, or maybe the cops do by now.
Jumping in the car and blindly racing towards home, thoughts of discovery occupied my mind. Never have I been close to being caught. I began to regret that I didn’t kill that nosy little bitch all those long years ago. I could have thrown her in the same hole as Scruffy.
Now I am standing inside the front door at home and the knife is lying in a succulent pool of velvet red on the floor, Meg’s hand covered in blood.
My rage wanes as she speaks to me, sounding like a pesky insect buzzing around, taunting my ear. There is fear in her eyes. I feel the twisted smile play across my face as I am thinking, “Good-bye, Meg.”
Carrie White is an incredibly gifted writer, reviewer, amateur photographer, and digital artist who owns and operates Hentracks, a site that showcases her exceptional works of erotica.