Thursday, 9 April 2015

He Came At Her With An Axe

Occasionally I write a short story. This is one of them. 

He Came At Her With An Axe

Michigan, 1989

He came at her with an axe, so she shot him dead.

That was an hour ago. Now she sat on the kitchen floor, as far away from his body as she could position herself, and watched his corpse and wondered what to do next. The panic had subsided, the trembling had ceased. Now she was becoming methodical.

The gun had immediately been dropped in the empty sink. It had been the first time she had fired the damn thing. It had been loud – so damn loud – but there hadn't been as much blood as she's thought. Lot of spray on the walls, yes, but nothing that couldn't be wiped away. She'd clean soon, although she now realised that she should have done it straight away because blood was tough to shift when it dried. 'Coca-Cola works', Mom had told her once, but she didn't drink Coke. It tasted like robot piss.
She'd been quick to mop up what had pooled around his body. Fistfuls of kitchen paper towels, thick and glistening with red, were clumped together in a bucket by his body. A blood-stained pair of Marigolds hung over the tap. He'd stopped leaking now. She'd have to bleach the floor later and she hated the smell of bleach.

Could she go to the police? Would they believe her? Perhaps. Most of it would be truth. It had been self-defence. It had. She had invited him round. He'd had the axe hidden in the coat folded over his arm, and the bastard had only revealed it when the latch had clicked behind him and he was in the living room and being offered a drink. All that was true. Yes. Yeah she could tell them that. The living room would corroborate that. Now that the door had been hacked off its hinges she could see straight through to the splintered coffee table, and the stuffing and springs popping out of the couch. He'd swung wildly to scare her at first, reciting the Lord's Prayer as he smashed into the china hutch and the TV and the stereo. Fucking weirdo. The Lord's Prayer? She could tell the cops that too. Religious nutjob. She'd emphasise nutjob – 'Nut. Job' - and then be sure to point to the crucifix tangled round his neck. The first time she'd seen it was when she'd been clearing him up.

The gun. No. The gun. She couldn't account for the gun. They would charge her for possession and she'd be taken in. There'd be photos and statements and CCTV. No, she couldn't do that. She couldn't go to prison. She'd only bought the damn thing for this kind of home invasion shit that Patsy had told her about. She never thought she'd have to use it. Why would Patsy have one? No one would invade fucking Patsy and her cats. Now she could see the shell casing lying just under the refrigerator. Oh thanks, Patsy. 

No, she couldn't go the cops. There was a bucket of his soaked-up blood lying next to him and that wouldn't look good. She'd have to move him.


He was a tall guy and he looked heavy, and he would leak while she dragged him. More bleach. Where could she put him? The spare room? No. But...the chest freezer in the basement was big enough for him. She might have to snap some parts of him, but yeah...yeah he would fit. She had a good hammer. He'd break up easy. She'd bag all the food and put it in the garbage and then she'd wrap him in trash bags and drag him downstairs and break him up. She'd throw the gun under him too. She wished she'd never listened to Patsy. Fucking Patsy.

Jeez, but he looked heavy. She didn't know why she'd said yes to him in the first place. She wouldn't want that lurching up and down on her. But he'd been so charming, with his 'watching you for months, been dying to introduce myself' shit. Bastard. She should've read the signs. Mom had taught her how to spot the predators, but this flash prick with his coffee and his beard and his mountaineering stories and his hidden crucifix...he'd slipped under her sights. Well, fuck him and his 'art in Heaven' and his fucking carabiners. His axe was still under his hand. It looked like the kind of thing you stabbed at mountains. She'd use that to fit him in the freezer, better than a hammer, and then toss it in with him. Mountain fucker.

Now here was a list of things to do and she was happy. She realised how hungry she was. The dinner she had made for the two of them had burned and congealed in its pan on the stove. It smelled terrible and it still didn't cover up the smell of the blood. Hunger pulled at her stomach. Hunger like she had resisted for years now. She had been so good for so many years, but now that rich metallic stink was in her nostrils and she could feel her heart beating faster and faster...

She crawled forward and pulled the bucket of blood and kitchen paper close. She sat back and pushed her hand in – it all still felt so surprisingly soft and warm - and pulled out a hunk. It glistened in the kitchen lights. She held it there in her hands, feeling the wet and weight of it. Then slowly, gently, she pushed her lips against it and began to suck out the red. And when that wasn't enough she stuffed the kitchen towels in her mouth and ate them, blood and paper running down her throat as a pink mash. The endorphin rush hit her and she felt her fangs break through. Saliva dribbled down her chin. Her upper lip curved over her sharp new teeth in pleasure. She'd missed this. Oh sweet relief! She had been so good for so long and she had missed this. Fuck, it tasted good. It had been years and it tasted so fucking good. Her hands plunged into the bucket.

When she reached the bottom of the bucket her eyes lifted to his body. The blood had begun to crust on her lips. Her tongue flicked over it. Then she began to lick her hands clean. She'd drink the rest of him tomorrow, all of him. She would use that axe and snap him open and drink him down to his bones. She would drink him until his arteries popped, and when he was skin and marrow she would pack him in the freezer and she wouldn't feel guilty about it. No. She wouldn't feel guilty. Well, it was in self-defence. After all, he came at her with an axe.