Darling Three
Trigger warning: This post deals with sexual assault.
If you or someone you know is a survivor of assault, below are a list of resources available to you. Here and at all times you are believed, valued, supported and loved.
https://www.rainn.org/resources
National Sexual Assault hotline, available 24 hours: 1-800-656- HOPE (4673)
This scene belongs to a short story I wrote. It was inspired by the song “A Woman’s Work” by SheDaisy (yes, the late 90’s/early 2000’s country trio; I know, I know.) I started writing it as a break from the mythical and paranormal world I was constantly consumed with: I needed a refresher and to stretch my creative muscles in a different direction. It, however, is so entirely different from what I usually write that it will never be more than a quick short story written on a day where I felt particularly stabby. I also very much enjoyed the idea of a pregnant heroine out to rid the world of bad men, one at a time, without remorse or hesitation. I may post more of the story in later posts, who knows? We will see.
Enjoy.
Louise chewed on her cheek, her head tilted in curiosity. A crimson pool slowly crept across the black and white laminate tile of her kitchen floor. It was a cheap upgrade to the near-ancient house when she first bought it, and now it was something she regretfully would have to replace again.
With a low rumble from her throat, she crossed her arms over her chest. The inconvenience of the situation she found herself in grated on her nerves. Today certainly hadn’t gone as planned.
Her careful eyes studied the body that lay belly-up on her floor. Sunk several inches deep into the man’s chest was her largest kitchen knife. Perhaps it had been a bit dramatic choice to go for such a weapon; the poultry shears still hidden in one of her drawers would have done the job well enough. But time makes fools of us all, and rationality was not exactly top of mind when she stabbed him. No, what drove her to lunge was a deep-rooted need to rid the world of his shining presence. He was a drain, and her life, as well as everyone else’s, would be better without him in it.
It hadn’t been more than a few hours before the grisly scene in her kitchen that Louise had squatted over her upstairs toilet and, with expert precision, pissed on an eight-dollar stick that would change her life.
The world dropped out from below her as the second line appeared — the line that told her the first one hadn’t been a joke.
“Well, shit,” she had said to no one, and tossed the test in the trash.
But there was a lifetime of difference between the person she was that morning and the person whose shoes were now soaking red. They were nice shoes too — designer; the ones she bought on sale with her friend Renee a few months earlier. Her first pair of designer anything, and now the soft, supple grey suede was forever ruined. Louise always knew she couldn’t handle nice things.
She didn’t understand why she bothered to dress up for him, why she slipped on her lovely red dress with bright yellow flowers and sunk her feet into those grey suede heels — regrettably, for the last time.
He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve her.
Louise had invited him over to talk about the pregnancy and what they were going to do about it. At that moment, she supposed there was no more they, only her.
That was fine. She would do this on her own.
She hadn’t asked for any of this. Her only mistake was going to a colleague's party a few months ago, drinking too much or maybe not enough, and waking up mid-blackout with the asshole who was now lying dead in her kitchen on top of her.
Rape was a sobering experience. Her hazy, drunken mind sharpened quickly — narrowing in on how his fingers pinched her skin or how he grunted with each sloppy stroke. Louise didn’t even know his name, just the feeling of him as he forcibly thrust himself inside her. She learned it later after he was done.
Richard.
Louise had laughed the first time she heard it. It figured. He looked like a Dick — Richard Bowman III, to be exact.
His father was some shipping magnate out of Boston. Privilege and preppiness nearly oozed from each of his perfect pores. It was an honor to have been chosen as his prey that night, or so he told her. In no other situation than a quick screw would he have ever looked twice at a lowly elementary school teacher like her.
Louise pursed her lips. Well, now he was dead, and had been for… Her eyes flicked over to the clock that hung on her wall with its plain white plastic frame.
Fifteen minutes.
Richard Bowman III had been dead for 15 minutes. Her good work had ensured there would never be a Richard Bowman IV.
She marveled at how the world continued to spin;, how time hadn’t stopped. And even in those 15 minutes, the sun still had the nerve to sink lower below the horizon.
Did it not know who he was?
Perhaps Richard overstated his importance. Maybe his gravitational force wasn’t as strong as he suspected. Perhaps the world didn’t understand or even care who his father was?
Louise walked to hover over his body and prodded it with the pointed toe of her ruined shoe. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe —
Yup, he was still dead.
She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, knowing that there was only one real move she could make here. But before she called the cops on herself, she needed help. She reached for her phone to dial the only number she ever called.
The line trilled once, twice, and on the third ring, a familiar voice picked up.
“Yo.” Renee greeted her.
“I have a legal question for you,” Louise started.
“Oh no, it didn’t go well? Is the asshole not going to pay child support? Because we both know he can freaking afford it. Unless you decided to do the other thing — which I totally support, by the way.”
Louise paused and waited for her friend to finish her pro-choice speech. It was the same one Renee had given her hours before after that second goddamn line showed up on the test.
She sucked on her teeth. “Nope. A different type of question.”
“Okay, but we’re circling back to the whole child support thing.”
“Right. I think child support might end up being an issue. I may have stabbed him. He may be dead.”
The line was silent. Louise scanned her kitchen; the garish florescent light cast everything in a horrible yellow glow. Perhaps once she finished fixing the tile, she would replace that light. It had always bothered her.
She heard a deep breath blow over the microphone on the other end of the line.
“What do you mean he may be dead? How is he possibly dead?”
Louise’s voice tightened. “I mean, a minute ago, I sort of kicked him. He didn’t move. I know I’m not exactly an expert, but I think I might have nicked an artery because there is practically a lake of his blood on my floor.”
“What? What do you mean you nicked an artery? How do you nick an artery when you were supposed to be talking about your pregnancy?”
The rising hysteria in Renee’s voice wasn’t helping the situation. Louise had read online that she needed to keep her heart rate low not to disturb the development of the baby, and right now, it was ratcheting up with every question that she couldn’t answer.
“I stabbed him, and I think I hit something.”
“Jesus Christ.” Another long pause and another deep exhale. “So you killed him?” Renee asked.
“I mean, not on purpose,” she lied. The second her slender fingers wrapped around the knife, she knew what the outcome would be. Even now, as she stared down at his body, completely drained of color and blood, she didn’t feel a hint of remorse.
“Okay.” Renee put on her stern voice, which Louise knew meant business. It was precisely why Louise knew she could call her friend in this situation. In the few years that Renee had worked in the legal aid division in Boston, she had seen everything; instead of panic or judgment, Louise trusted her friend’s cooler instincts would prevail.
“Here is what you need to do. You need to call the police and tell them it was self-defense. Let them take you in and let them take him away. I will meet you there. Do not, I repeat, do not talk to anyone before I get there. And you need to come up with an outstanding story.”
“Do I — do I pull the knife out?” Louise asked.
“No. Don’t pull the goddamn knife out!” Renee shouted with exasperation.
Louise held one hand up in front of her defensively, as if her friend was standing there in the kitchen scolding her. “Okay, okay, okay. Jesus, you don’t have to yell.”
“Oh my God…just do what I told you to do, and I’ll be there in an hour.”
The other end went dead, and Louise was left standing in her kitchen alone. Well, not exactly alone. The words “self-defense” echoed in her mind. The murder hadn’t been premeditated, but it certainly wasn’t self-defense.
He turned around, and she lunged with barely enough time to even attempt to block her.
Louise crouched down and ran her fingernails over the skin of his face, scratching lightly. She did the same with his hand, grabbing the stiff fingers and scrapping them over her throat, once, twice until several red welts had formed on her skin. With a sickening crack, she bent his hand into a fist and forced it to tug on her hair, pulling free a few strands. She placed his other hand on the knife and gently pressed his fingerprints into the handle before letting it fall back to the floor.
With a wince, she took her right hand and clutched the few inches of the blade sticking up from his chest, slicing her fingers deeply. Bright blood ran down from her fingers, mixing with his.
Louise knew that most of her efforts would be in vain and that any amount of careful detective work would give her away, but she had to try something. The last thing she wanted was to give birth in jail.
As a good Catholic girl raised in a traditional two-parent blue-collar household, she didn’t know much about what life was like in prison, but she doubted they would let her keep her kid.
Not even a whole day had passed since she learned she would be a parent, and already Louise felt like she was failing. She didn’t feel the need to keep up with the Pinterest moms, but killing your child’s father seemed like a no-brainer sign of a bad parent.
Exhaling deeply through her nose, she stood and called 911. Her bloody fingerprints stained the phone’s screen as she held it up to her ear.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a voice asked on the other end.
Louise huffed, raising her voice to convey fear and desperation. “I don’t know. Oh, God. I don’t know.”
“Ma’am, I need you to calm down. Tell me what’s going on?” the voice remained steady.
She audibly swallowed and started to cry. “I think I killed him. I had to. He was going to kill me.” Louise allowed panic to lace each word.
“Okay, a unit has been dispatched. Do not leave the property.”
She hung up the phone and waited with arms crossed as she leaned against her chipping Formica countertop. Another thing she figured she would replace. Since she clearly had to replace the floors already, and that horrible light — she might as well fix up the whole damn kitchen.