Before I murdered her, I made macaroons. It is very difficult to find good, classic French macaroons and when you do find them, you have to pay an arm and a leg for them. I’m not a rich man, so I realized I had to make my beloved treat myself. Almond is my favorite. I respect almonds; they are the king of the nuts. Well, not the domesticated almond, but the original, wild almond – the one that makes prussic acid – that’s the king.
After I murdered her, I lost my sweet tooth. My treat of 3 macaroons with a glass of Vin Santo turned into 3 snifters of whiskey and a few Pringles. Pringles are the bottom of the totem pole as far as chips go. They are made from maltodextrin and dextrose, monosodium glutamate, disodium inosinate, disodium guanylate, sodium caseinate, modified food starch, monoglyceride and diglyceride, autolyzed yeast extract, with natural and artificial flavors. So, no food actually goes into the making of a Pringle. The Pringle lacks purity; it is devoid of all value.
We used to cook together, she and I. We would sift through the pages of some farmer’s market cookbook and pick something out that looked challenging. The kids would chime in with their votes. I killed them, too. I had to. But, they used to be surprisingly helpful in the kitchen, despite their young ages. The wife and I taught them early how to recognize various herbs in the garden. Then, they’d turn it into a game – who could find the basil first, or who could get mommy and me the exact amount of rosemary we needed without going over the amount called for in the recipe.
“Do you know where they are?” The police officer asked.
I guess I’d been lost in thought for too long because he had to repeat the question.
“Oh, yes. Here. The little one is 4 and the older one is 7. This picture was taken about a year ago. We were camping over at…”
“That’s fine, sir. We’ll do our best.”
“Please. I miss them terribly.”
“I’m sure you won’t listen to me, but try to take care of yourself. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, officer.”
I knew he would never find them, but he believed. He did his best, though, I’ll give him that. When he ran out of suspects, he began to look more closely at me. That made life a bit more stressful, which I compensated for by upping my whiskey quotient. It was around that time that I met Sadie and her delicious daughter Sylvie. God knows why, but the two stuck with me through the whole ordeal. We became very close. I began to feel my horns again.
Eventually, the cops had to give up their search and they informed me that it had become a cold case. My ex wife and two children were gone. Sadie, always so full of empathy, put her head in my lap and cried as though it were her own family she lost. Funny that, I hadn’t cried nearly so much for them, but here was Sadie bawling over complete strangers. She cried so long, I had to pour myself another drink. That’s when I saw them. My horns were completely visible, reflected back to me from my whiskey bottle. I had never seen them before, only sensed them. When I reached up to feel them, there was nothing to feel. My ex had warned me that too much drink did nasty things to a man, but that bitch never knew what she was talking about.
A smart man would tell you that such things were an omen. A smart man would tell you that I should’ve learned my lesson the first time it happened. Yet, smart is never something I aspired to be. I used to read these stories about people who drink too much and do things they would regret. I always thought those stories were such a cop-out. I mean, look at how many people drink too much every day and their worst regret is just a hang-over. Drinking does not make a man do something evil; the evil has to already exist in the man.
I’ll give you an example. The other night, Sadie was working and I was half a bottle deep. Sylvie was barely dressed in a little tank top and jean skirt. She was sitting in front of me watching some teen flick on the tube.
“John?”
“Yes, dear?”
“When does my mom get home tonight?”
“I believe she said midnight or thereabouts.”
“We have a lot of time, then.”
“Time for what, darling?”
“To play, of course!”
“What would you like to play, honey?”
Well, she suggested all manner of dirty sounding games, but I convinced her that Monopoly would be much more her speed. I may be a murder, but I am not a pedophile, and no amount of whiskey would turn me into one. Thoughts and deeds don’t always have to go hand in hand.
Sadie crawled into bed next to me much later that night. She was tired and smelled like grease. I got that impulse again. It was the feeling that I had to put my hands on her throat. That feeling could not be ignored. No, it was a pulling sensation so strong that I was always unable to contradict it. Picture a thousand mosquito bites with your hands bound up in mittens – you would eat those mittens off your hands just to get at that throbbing itch. And once you scratch to your heart’s delight, you’re left with a bloody mess on your hands.
I flipped on the lamp and turned over to grab another drink. There they were – reflected in the bottle. It wasn’t my horns; it was the images of my dead family. I screamed and threw the bottle against the bedroom wall, gasping for air as the shards and golden liquid fell to the floor.
“What the hell?” Sadie said, startled.
I couldn’t find my breath and was unable to respond. Sylvie rushed into the room. As she did so, she slipped on the whiskey puddle and fell, getting scraped up by the broken glass as she slid. Sirens could have been modeled after her scream it was so piercing.
“Baby! Are you okay?” Sadie asked, rushing to her side.
“Mwaa.”
I’m sure she meant to say “Mom,” but shock made her less articulate. The poor girl just sat there, looking at the bloody scrapes on her hands and legs. None appeared too deep, but I suppose that wasn’t what mattered at this point.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really know what happened. Must’ve been a nightmare.”
“But you weren’t asleep,” Sadie remarked.
“How do you fucking know?”
“Because I heard you reach for your goddamn whiskey glass.”
“Maybe I was sleep walking.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, John! Will you just own up to it? You’re a drunk asshole sometimes. This is one of those times.”
“Look, I know I can suck at life, and I know I can be a very mean, stupid guy when I drink a lot, but this wasn’t an episode. I’m not drunk!”
“Then explain to me why we all had the wits scared out of us and my daughter looks like a Freddy Krueger victim over there?”
“Shit, I don’t know! Can we just all go to sleep and I’ll try to explain tomorrow?”
“Fine, but I’m sleeping in Sylvie’s room.”
Luckily, the conversation was over for the night. I took a few sleeping pills with a shot of whiskey; I wanted to be certain I was going to pass out for the night.
The next morning I went downstairs and made a cup of coffee. It was later in the day than I planned on sleeping, but no one can really control the effects of sleeping pills. The house seemed still, quiet. I called for the girls, but no one answered. I looked all around the house and found no trace of them. All of their things were there, but no sign of the girls. I waited three days and never saw them. Their stuff remained untouched. Cell phones went unanswered. It was as if they dropped off the planet.
I couldn’t handle the silent, empty house, so I checked into a hotel room – the kind with a little kitchenette area. I tried to keep it somewhat pure, but it felt continuously dirty and disheveled. The whiskey bottle sat by my left hand. I tried to avoid looking at it. Finally, I took a glance at that bottle, which seemed simply to mock me. I saw no horns. I saw no ghosts. I just saw me. I don’t know if I killed them or if they just left. I don’t know if I ever killed anyone.
After I murdered her, I lost my sweet tooth. My treat of 3 macaroons with a glass of Vin Santo turned into 3 snifters of whiskey and a few Pringles. Pringles are the bottom of the totem pole as far as chips go. They are made from maltodextrin and dextrose, monosodium glutamate, disodium inosinate, disodium guanylate, sodium caseinate, modified food starch, monoglyceride and diglyceride, autolyzed yeast extract, with natural and artificial flavors. So, no food actually goes into the making of a Pringle. The Pringle lacks purity; it is devoid of all value.
We used to cook together, she and I. We would sift through the pages of some farmer’s market cookbook and pick something out that looked challenging. The kids would chime in with their votes. I killed them, too. I had to. But, they used to be surprisingly helpful in the kitchen, despite their young ages. The wife and I taught them early how to recognize various herbs in the garden. Then, they’d turn it into a game – who could find the basil first, or who could get mommy and me the exact amount of rosemary we needed without going over the amount called for in the recipe.
“Do you know where they are?” The police officer asked.
I guess I’d been lost in thought for too long because he had to repeat the question.
“Oh, yes. Here. The little one is 4 and the older one is 7. This picture was taken about a year ago. We were camping over at…”
“That’s fine, sir. We’ll do our best.”
“Please. I miss them terribly.”
“I’m sure you won’t listen to me, but try to take care of yourself. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, officer.”
I knew he would never find them, but he believed. He did his best, though, I’ll give him that. When he ran out of suspects, he began to look more closely at me. That made life a bit more stressful, which I compensated for by upping my whiskey quotient. It was around that time that I met Sadie and her delicious daughter Sylvie. God knows why, but the two stuck with me through the whole ordeal. We became very close. I began to feel my horns again.
Eventually, the cops had to give up their search and they informed me that it had become a cold case. My ex wife and two children were gone. Sadie, always so full of empathy, put her head in my lap and cried as though it were her own family she lost. Funny that, I hadn’t cried nearly so much for them, but here was Sadie bawling over complete strangers. She cried so long, I had to pour myself another drink. That’s when I saw them. My horns were completely visible, reflected back to me from my whiskey bottle. I had never seen them before, only sensed them. When I reached up to feel them, there was nothing to feel. My ex had warned me that too much drink did nasty things to a man, but that bitch never knew what she was talking about.
A smart man would tell you that such things were an omen. A smart man would tell you that I should’ve learned my lesson the first time it happened. Yet, smart is never something I aspired to be. I used to read these stories about people who drink too much and do things they would regret. I always thought those stories were such a cop-out. I mean, look at how many people drink too much every day and their worst regret is just a hang-over. Drinking does not make a man do something evil; the evil has to already exist in the man.
I’ll give you an example. The other night, Sadie was working and I was half a bottle deep. Sylvie was barely dressed in a little tank top and jean skirt. She was sitting in front of me watching some teen flick on the tube.
“John?”
“Yes, dear?”
“When does my mom get home tonight?”
“I believe she said midnight or thereabouts.”
“We have a lot of time, then.”
“Time for what, darling?”
“To play, of course!”
“What would you like to play, honey?”
Well, she suggested all manner of dirty sounding games, but I convinced her that Monopoly would be much more her speed. I may be a murder, but I am not a pedophile, and no amount of whiskey would turn me into one. Thoughts and deeds don’t always have to go hand in hand.
Sadie crawled into bed next to me much later that night. She was tired and smelled like grease. I got that impulse again. It was the feeling that I had to put my hands on her throat. That feeling could not be ignored. No, it was a pulling sensation so strong that I was always unable to contradict it. Picture a thousand mosquito bites with your hands bound up in mittens – you would eat those mittens off your hands just to get at that throbbing itch. And once you scratch to your heart’s delight, you’re left with a bloody mess on your hands.
I flipped on the lamp and turned over to grab another drink. There they were – reflected in the bottle. It wasn’t my horns; it was the images of my dead family. I screamed and threw the bottle against the bedroom wall, gasping for air as the shards and golden liquid fell to the floor.
“What the hell?” Sadie said, startled.
I couldn’t find my breath and was unable to respond. Sylvie rushed into the room. As she did so, she slipped on the whiskey puddle and fell, getting scraped up by the broken glass as she slid. Sirens could have been modeled after her scream it was so piercing.
“Baby! Are you okay?” Sadie asked, rushing to her side.
“Mwaa.”
I’m sure she meant to say “Mom,” but shock made her less articulate. The poor girl just sat there, looking at the bloody scrapes on her hands and legs. None appeared too deep, but I suppose that wasn’t what mattered at this point.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t really know what happened. Must’ve been a nightmare.”
“But you weren’t asleep,” Sadie remarked.
“How do you fucking know?”
“Because I heard you reach for your goddamn whiskey glass.”
“Maybe I was sleep walking.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, John! Will you just own up to it? You’re a drunk asshole sometimes. This is one of those times.”
“Look, I know I can suck at life, and I know I can be a very mean, stupid guy when I drink a lot, but this wasn’t an episode. I’m not drunk!”
“Then explain to me why we all had the wits scared out of us and my daughter looks like a Freddy Krueger victim over there?”
“Shit, I don’t know! Can we just all go to sleep and I’ll try to explain tomorrow?”
“Fine, but I’m sleeping in Sylvie’s room.”
Luckily, the conversation was over for the night. I took a few sleeping pills with a shot of whiskey; I wanted to be certain I was going to pass out for the night.
The next morning I went downstairs and made a cup of coffee. It was later in the day than I planned on sleeping, but no one can really control the effects of sleeping pills. The house seemed still, quiet. I called for the girls, but no one answered. I looked all around the house and found no trace of them. All of their things were there, but no sign of the girls. I waited three days and never saw them. Their stuff remained untouched. Cell phones went unanswered. It was as if they dropped off the planet.
I couldn’t handle the silent, empty house, so I checked into a hotel room – the kind with a little kitchenette area. I tried to keep it somewhat pure, but it felt continuously dirty and disheveled. The whiskey bottle sat by my left hand. I tried to avoid looking at it. Finally, I took a glance at that bottle, which seemed simply to mock me. I saw no horns. I saw no ghosts. I just saw me. I don’t know if I killed them or if they just left. I don’t know if I ever killed anyone.
This story is the Flash Fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/08/28/flash-fiction-challenge-pick-a-character-and-go-go-go/
I borrowed this character from thesexiestwriter:
https://criticalsexualmass.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/create-a-character/#comments
I borrowed this character from thesexiestwriter:
https://criticalsexualmass.wordpress.com/2015/08/21/create-a-character/#comments