This is my psychiatrist's couch. Take from it what you will.
But do leave a note.
I still am a late middle aged former government worker marking time until the cliff.
Short Fiction, Doggerel and Insensitive Opinion are spoken here.
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Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Cain (Blogophilia 15.11)
My name is Cain. My mother thought it was cute.
Names have fates and mine doomed me to be a fugitive for all my days. Trouble always finds me. I have no delusions of grandeur. I am a slave to this demon, Trouble. Like every other good slave, I bow to its dominance.
The demon has commanded me here, to a restaurant overlooking the harbor. A wall of dark clouds sit on the horizon. A weathered dock sits lies next to it. A sailboat drifts toward port and home, rainbow sail contrasting with the gray.
She sat across the table, smiling. Blonde and bland, the face would be at home on a cereal box or insurance commercial. The figure and dress were unremarkable. It smells like fresh gardenia in the rain. Soft and soothing, To anyone looking from the outside, it was a Doris Day movie. The dashing young man meeting the attractive young woman on the sly.
It was a charade, of course, all of it. She was a client with a problem,her husband. A name and face I knew a long time ago. I was hesitant.
The whip in my head snapped as the voice screamed.
"Cain! Do your job! Remember the past." The sound of screaming. Mother in her pain and humiliation, then a bang. Cold steel blade against my neck. His sick grin. It goes to black as it does in my sleep. So many years unpunished. It was time.
The voices in my head are a two part choir, better and worse. Psalms and prayers ask and answer the unknowable. Who is the abuser? Why am I abused? Communion beckoned with comfort and solace through action.
The soprano of a guardian angel is in my left ear urging mercy.
"So, can I break his nose just a little?" I think to myself.
The baritone of the fallen angel thunders in response.
"No. Revenge must be complete."
The command is absolute and unwavering. I drop my guard. Without another word, I nod in agreement. It isn't like I had another job, or anything else to do in this moment. And can be the omnipotent one for once.
Her voice is irrelevant, drowned out by the internal choir as a solution forms and is agreed to, even though I want to be anywhere but there. The voices scream: "Make it stop. Kill her and stop the madness." I can't. Too much money was involved.
The conversation devolves into small talk and silence. Simultaneously, we rise from the table and leave with no handshake. Business cards are exchanged. But if asked, this meeting never happened.
I take my time walking back to the car. The rain began as I pulled out of the parking lot.
The address led a mashup of nondescript buildings in a corporate office park. The developer thought it would be cute to end all the street names in "Parkway". It wasn't. The one I wanted was in the back of the complex. Two cars I didn’t recognize were parked by the front door. The lights inside were out. I drive past them and pull into a space at the corner. As I step out, I scan quickly for security cameras. The front of the building looks clean.
A weird feeling came over me. Even before I get to the front door, it’s obvious something had already happened. The scent of death was in the air. Scarlet drops peppered the inside of the door glass. Bare, tanned ankles were sticking out a doorway, one gold slingback shoe still on. Nah, not her. Too tan. Looking in the hall beyond the legs doesn't yield any clues.
Stay or go?
"You must stay!"
"You must go!"
Over and over, faster and louder. The invisible whip snapped beside my ear.
The door gives easily. Blood smell drives hard into my sinuses. Stepping carefully so not to track anything, I slide along the wall even to the doorway. It wasn't pretty. The skirt had been torn up the middle and spread, ripped remains of lingerie just off the right hip. Back of the head was gone. The memory comes back. Him riding high on her back. I shake it off and scan the rest of the room.
Just beyond the abused body was a man, face down next to the desk. He was naked. I couldn't tell if it was him or not.
Outside of the bodies, the office was neat. Nothing indicating a robbery or even someone looking for something. Death had been the only goal. As I leaned down over the dead girl, I felt the cold steel barrel at the base of my neck. The smell of gardenia filled my nose. The Blonde. Her voice was almost a whisper.
"Sorry to leave you high and dry, but we needed a Patsy."
With a small push, I fall to my knees. I look down and see the dress shoes. The same ones from so long ago. I look up. The beard was gray, but the eyes were still cold blue.
"You were such a cute little boy and most cooperative. I knew you still would be." He stopped a moment. "Like you, I don't like to leave things unfinished. You weren't supposed see your mother that way, of course."