We watched as the woman that’d wronged me jumped out of the driver’s seat. She sauntered up to the nightclub, its flashing purple lights telling her that she and the rest of the ladies would be drinking for free that night. When she walked in, we revealed ourselves. She wouldn’t recognize him, of course, and she wouldn’t even be able to lay eyes on me. No one could, in fact. Still, if she knew she had a stalker, this could all go wrong very fast, and we didn’t need that.
We walked across the street, nearly uninhabited. The bar was in a lousy part of town, and most people found they could find a much better place to spend their night. Not my ex-wife, though, the connoisseur of all things trashy and rundown. The bouncer let us in, and I don’t see why he wouldn’t; we were dressed to impress. Once inside, we scanned our surroundings, taking everything in.
Women were everywhere with a few men sprinkled throughout. They clambered over each other at the bar as the server rushed to gratify them. On the vinyl floor, they’d danced unskillfully to Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me, every white trash woman’s anthem. The lights were low, casting a dim, red glow over the room. And there she was in the corner, sitting at a table by herself, stirring her Sex On The Beach, pitifully waiting for one of the men in attendance to approach her. Lucky she was; that was just what we planned on doing. We walked over confidently, putting as little space between us and her as we could before one of the other men swooped in like the vultures they were.
She smiled up at us. I knew that smile all too well; had woken up next to it for the better part of fifteen years. It took me back to the good times, but to the bad times as well–the times that drove me to my demise in the end. I remembered why we were there.
She asked us our name, asked if we came there often, told us that we looked like we worked out (she was always such a cliched bitch). We told her all the right things; newly single, looking for a fling, have a lot of money, a nice condo, and why, yes, we certainly do work out, thanks for noticing. She was quickly enticed, constantly hunching her shoulders and sticking out her chest as she laughed, her breasts fit to burst from the black leather halter top she’d been wearing.
She asked us if we wanted to get out of there. Easy enough; we’d not even been chatting her up for 15 minutes. Of course, if anyone in the world knew how easy my widow was, it was me. We told her we’d love to, that we should go to our car. We’d drive because, obviously, we knew the way to our own house, didn’t we? She agreed immediately and didn’t even inquire as to what would happen to her car should she leave it parked in front of the bar all night. Arm in arm, we walked outside, the bouncer impressed with the speed in which we could pick up women.
We walked across the street to the alley where we’d parked. She had her head laid on our shoulder, caressing our back with her manicured nails as we walked toward the dark side street. It’d felt good until I remembered that she never did such a thing for me, yet she’d do it for the stranger she’d known for a handful of minutes. Our blood boiled, but I held us hold back; we were so close to our goal.
We stopped at our car, a Lexus in pristine condition. A true gentleman, we walked her around to the passenger side and unlocked her door, helping her in. Once she was buckled in, nice and safe, we pulled the switchblade that’d been tucked into our sleeve and stabbed her 68 times in the face, neck, chest, and stomach. She screamed loudly, though it quickly transformed to mutated gargles as blood poured from her mouth and down her chest. I was overjoyed to see her suffer and my mood intensified with every stab. It would have been worse had the bouncer not seen us from across the street and rushed to tackle us. The woman had been stabbed 68 times, however; he was much too late to save her.
She’d been the reason I took my own life, and for that reason, I had to come back to make sure she lost hers in the process. No woman who drives a man to suicide should be allowed to live to tell the tale, and thanks to me, that standard was upheld that night.
I do feel just awful for the man that’s now imprisoned in an asylum because of me. Would that I could have done the deed in my ethereal form, but as fate would have it, that turned out to be impossible. The defense argued for an insanity plea, and he’d received it. His testimony was awfully convincing, as he came to tears telling the jury that it felt as if he were being controlled, even telling them that the voices in his head made him do it. They ended up throwing him in a straight jacket and putting him in a home with the rest of the loonies, labeling him as a manic depressive schizophrenic. Me, I think they could have just called him possessed and have been done with it. That would have been much more accurate, but hey, what do I know?
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Craig’s been writing since he was old enough to pick up a pen and do so. Though his interests lie mainly in horror, he never shies away from writing a good fantasy or mystery story. When he’s not writing or spending time with his wife, he’s also the editor for Beyond Imagination Magazine and Beyond Science Fiction Magazine. You can connect with Craig easily at http://www.writercraig.com.
Image by Kamal Hamid
