Story Telling

by Peter Gifford

Again? Once again? Very well. If I must.

Each morning, at 9am, I walked to the corner store to get the paper, and sometimes a carton of milk. And I’d see her there, waiting for the bus. Do you know that feeling, when you see someone day after day, that feeling as if you’ve known them all your life? It was like that between us. She’d pretend not to see me, reading a book with her head down and the sun shining off her smooth brown hair, but she knew I was standing there at the entrance to the store, the paper slipping from my fingers. I don’t know how long I would stand there, just looking at her. She knew I was there.

There must have be a moment between wanting and doing, but I don’t remember it. I just knew I couldn’t go on just looking. So I made plans. Detailed plans that took weeks to work out, plans that had no chance of failing. Looking back now, there was never a moment when I doubted that she would go along with them. We had an unspoken agreement, her and I. She was just waiting for me to make the first move.

So one day, one bright, sunny day, I got in my car and drove past the corner store, and stopped in front of her at the bus stop. It was easy. I’d done my research you see. I knew her mother’s name, and my story was faultless. So she got in. I knew she would. I drove back to my place, and I think I was actually pulling into the garage, smiling to myself, before things started to go wrong. She was shouting at me, trying to hit me with her bag. In the close space of the car everything became a crazy blur, both our arms flailing, her striking out, me trying to calm her down. What was she doing? Hadn’t she been waiting, like me, for this moment, when we could finally be together?

Suddenly everything went quiet, and when my vision cleared and I looked at her she was sitting slumped in the passenger seat, and bright red blood was trickling from the corner of her mouth. She looked so peaceful sleeping there. I carried her inside. Do I really have to tell you the rest?

Your story is boring pal. Boring. You’re a lame little child molester with a sad history of self abuse and a life that reads like a psychology textbook. I can’t believe I have to listen to such shit. You’re both lucky I’m here to liven things up.

I’ll get right to the punchline. I killed my wife. Cut her up. I grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced her six ways from Sunday. She deserved it too, the little bitch. She screwed other guys, she spent my money, she didn’t give a shit about me. So I’m glad. I’m glad I did it and I’d do it again. She deserved it. The funny thing is, after I’d done it I was still angry. So I thought to myself, Dave, you can do whatever you want now. You’ve crossed the line. They’re going to catch you and fry you, so why not have a little fun before they that happens? I had a few old scores to settle.

When you make a decision like that things go cold and clear and everything becomes suddenly simple. I cleaned myself up a bit, and put on my best suit. I remember knotting the tie and thinking “Sheryl bought me this tie” and thinking it was funny. Then I spent a little time making myself look good, even dabbing on a little cologne. I look alright when I spruce myself up a little. Looking in the mirror I thought I looked pretty sharp.

I walked past Sheryl — she looked funny lying there on the bed, all surprised — locked the door, and walked calmly down the stairs, onto the street and into a taxi. Here’s a thing. People really get a shock when you come at them with a big fucking knife. I doesn’t matter that they treated you like shit, or they betrayed your trust. It’s because people don’t believe there are consequences to what they do. Especially women. They think they can always get away with it.

Yeah, they called me a women hater in the papers. But the truth is, they just stopped me before I moved on to the guys.

Two petty criminals and their tedious little achievements. I can hardly bring myself to relate the events of my life, they eclipse both of yours so greatly. But it seems I must give you an insight into a life lived to the fullest. Where do I begin? With the moment of my birth, ripped from my mother’s womb like Macduff and destined to follow in his avenging footsteps? With my first small conquests, the playground victories that set the stage for the destinies of millions? Perhaps I could regale you with each conspiracy and betrayal, if only you each had the wit to comprehend the subtleties.

No, let me tell in detail just one small story from a lifetime’s book of stories. It occurred when I was twenty-eight, in the prime of my life and almost at the peak of my powers. The time and place is unimportant. There was a man, a man who trusted me with his life, and he possessed a woman so beautiful and desirable that all who saw her abandoned thoughts of honour and duty and friendship for the thought of winning her. Let us call her Elizabeth.

I needn’t tell you that I resolved to have her. At such a relatively young age I was already a man used to getting my own way, especially with women, who are such slaves to a man who wields power. So I began to familiarise myself with the details of her life, carefully questioning her friends and acquaintances for insights into her likes and dislikes, noticing the small signs of dissatisfaction with her current love, formulating a perfect seduction strategy. It was almost too easy. She swooned at stories of my exploits, laughed at my humorous anecdotes, teased me with promises of victory and the ever-present possibility of rejection. Until finally we were alone on a palace balcony, and I judged it was finally the time to take her in my arms and make love to her.

And she turned from me. Her lips closed tight in response to mine and she pushed herself away, both hands on my chest. I refused to let her go, refused to believe that after all my preparation and skills she could not desire me. She began to make loud protesting noises, and when I held her yet more firmly, she glared at me with a look of hatred in her eyes that made me drop my guard, and her fingernails suddenly raked across my cheek, drawing blood.

I am a man experienced in battle, but unused to grappling with an enemy that commonly surrendered. So I briefly lost my composure. With the champagne glass that was still in my hand, I struck her hard across her milky white neck.

I returned to the party, dressed in a different uniform, perhaps an hour later. Several people remarked on my absence. I explained I had spilt a glass of red wine across myself which necessitated a change of clothing. Elizabeth was not missed for some time. When she was found in the garden later that evening, suspicion naturally fell on her erstwhile paramour. A few well-placed rumours and hints did the rest. In the end all was in my favour, for I removed a man who could possibly have become a threat to me. I was never suspected. After a time, her murder became just one story among millions.

The room fell silent and the men, as if on cue, looked down at their bare feet. The room was empty and quiet around them. After a moment the door into the room opened and an immaculately groomed man in a dark suit stood on the threshold. His features were razor sharp and horribly perfect, his lips unnaturally red. Each of the three naked men assiduously avoided his gaze.

“Thankyou gentlemen. Break’s over.”

From behind him came the sound of screams.