Monday Story

He looked back, and saw where his bare feet had been tracking blood behind him through the house. No surprise there, there had been a lot of blood. It was on the windows in spatters so dense they were half-blocking the afternoon sun, blasting red and yellow diffusions of late day light in a blending, 3-D matrix on the walls. For a while, with everything was winding to a close, he sat there in the stink and the fluids, and watched the blood-polarized rays dancing and reflecting around him. He let himself go then, and sat still until the gloaming brought an end to the weird light. He said out loud:

Well…Time to go.

And began to gather his things. Two minutes later he was on his way, and almost gone, when a sudden memory stopped him. He went back to the room. Oddly, the computer - an ancient desktop from a company long-extinct - wasn’t so deluged in red. He walked over and regarded the monitor. There was a face book account open, and he read the status header:

My FUCKING kids!

There was a great smear of blood above the words, and two or three drips below. For a few seconds he actually considered taking a picture. He laughed a bit at the idea, and then pressed the “send” key. Now just one last element to make his awesome tableau complete. He let his eyes wander back over to the scene of his “outburst” and comb the floor for it. Finding the thing, he grabbed it, and used it, and dropped it again.

***

Amy Burke was having an orgasm. She was trying to be discreet about it, sure. She didn’t let the extacy betray itself in her expression, and she damn well wasn’t cooing and gasping like a porn star, but despite all evidence to the contrary, Ms. Burke's rocks were, indeed, getting off. She stood, knees turning to pudding, face shiny-flush, in the paper goods aisle. It went on and on for what seemed like hours. When it was over, she felt for the thing that had caused it sitting safe in her purse. It was a Zippo lighter, the silver kind that smelled of butane. Amy had been in the act of admiring it when interrupted by her enthusiastic cumming.

It hadn’t been easy. She’d evaded capture by deploying her not-inconsiderable acting talents, thumbing through magazines shelved adjacently to her quarry.Every minute or so, she would reach downward, then pop up discretely to look around for room-reaction. A visual scan of the pharmacy revealed only a clear coast. The moment - Amy knew - was now. She dipped down again, and at the same time reache into a deep coat pocket and coming up with a carbon-black mini-switchblade. One stroke, well placed and well-delivered, was the extent of it. Amy removed the lighter and, stashing it atop a package of extra large Huggies", ambled over to the magazine rack to see if she'd been made. Nothing. five minutes, ten...Another little walk around the shop, picking up asprin, ginger ale, and greeting cards for three different occasions. Only after she was positively not made by store security did Amy return to the smoking accessories aisle and her Zippo. Taking a discreet last look around, she grabbed it and pursed it in one deft motion. That’s when she came. The orgasm was followed quickly by two shorter ones and then it was time to go. Instead of the forward check-out counter she opted to pay at the rearward perscription center. She was just pulling into the short line when her cell phone rang. She ignored the first ring, but the rest of the line began staring pointedly at the second and third attempts. She was feeling around her purse to mute the ringer when she noticed the words “East Greenwich Police” flashing across the front of her I Phone and decided to answer. Could it have been about the lighter? She clicked the talk button and said “Hello”.

***

Essex Hightower was an old man. His hearing, along with his legs, his eyes, his breath…Each felt every second of his 82 years, and each was far into the inevitable act of late-life failure. Nevertheless, Mr. Hightower called the cops when he’d heard the noises. Essex had done his bit for uncle Sam twice, enlisting under an assumed name in 1942, at the tender age of 17, so that he might go kill Germans in Europe. Ten years later he lead a battalion as an XO, eschewing command so that he could remain in the field as a forward observer. He sounds he’d heard emanate from his neighbor’s house between the hours of 2:30 and 3:15 on that Thursday were sounds Essex had heard only twice in entire bloody slog across France and - later - across frozen green hell surrounding the Chosen Resevoir. They were the sounds of children suffering and dying. Hightower called the cops and told them:

hurry up. Something’s happening.

Then Essex Hightower stepped outside to wait on his front steps. He no longer heard the terrible noises.