I Saw Red.

Let me tell you about Eric Connelly. My first victim. It was about 2:45 in the morning; I remember the slow ticking of the antique wooden grandfather clock in the living room which had been destroyed with remnants of cracked edged bottles lining the once smooth wooden surface. The yelling, laughing, teasing voices were still chanting in the room next door, but my head was pounding from nausea and my dizzy fluctuation caused me to swoop onto the nearest sofa. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed when I felt his sweaty palms ooze into my barely visible hand. Lifting me up with one tightly controlled arm, he leant me onto his chest. I could feel his warm breath, his heart pulsation through the thin layers of clothing protecting us from skin contact, the sweat emerging from his upper lip. I was woozy with fatigue and ambivalence, seeing the room turn in a blur, colours smeared from edge to edge. I felt my leg position being adjusted into an uncomfortable, outstretched arrangement, one high heel removed, and then the next, slowly, with deliberate cause. The thumps in my heart mirrored the motion in my head, my breathing quickened as I felt the body moving upwards, wet lips thrust onto my cold clad mouth. Unresponsive. Hands moving up, further, heart beat quickening, mouth moving faster, the thud hammering from chest to chest, cold sweat bursting from my forehead pushing in vain to separate our two skins. Suffocation lead to thinking lead to noticing that the voices had quietened, in fact, there was no sound, only the pulse in my ears throbbing forcefully, feeling as if they would burst. The limp lips were still moving with frustration, spit flying into my rejecting mouth, I dared not swallow. Then they were gone, removed from their pressurising place, and my heart beat slowed slightly in relief, like a cry of joy in its’ own rights. It was over. But seeing in blurry motion the figure wasn’t leaving, oh no. Blobs of colour were stripped from his lean body and before my mind could process the moment in time I felt myself become colder, stripping me of my dignity. It was like a rock had landed on my chest. It cut like ice, I could almost see the blood, could almost taste it, could almost feel it, if I had just enough strength… but I couldn’t lift the omnipotent force from my lifeless form. The pain split my head in two, my chest ripped apart as I gasped for air. The offender took this as a mark of glee, and responded with my eyes brimming with salty water. It leaked over the sides of my face, mascara smudged, hallowed cheeks, bewildered wide open eyes. I felt like a doll, being thrust at, poked at, jabbed at. All acts of vice thrown at me in one open movement. My panic switched to violence as I mustered up all the possible strength I had in my body and retracted myself, pushing in opposition to his advances. This all happened faster than I remember. His shocked expression splattered across his acute cut jaw line. We were off the sofa, onto the floor, my leg tangled in odd position somehow knitted into his body, but I didn’t feel pain; only anger. I started to crawl with a slight limp to the marginally open door, distances seem so far. 5metres, 3, 2, 1.5… A sharp slicing agony up my left leg as I turned around and saw him, holding my leg at an angulated position. Slowly, he slid me away from that door, away from my freedom, condemning me to pain and humiliation. That was when I saw it, and seized my moment. A large chunk of the grandfather clock which had been hacked off by some drunken partygoer. I felt the smooth, splintered wood slipping through my sweaty palms and clung to it. He was close now, his hand had started moving up my leg again, brushing over my knee, he had a sneer plastered across his once handsome features. And a jeer was uttered through those parting lips.

‘Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this. Whore.’

I saw red. I striked. Not looking back for a second. I saw red. Gushing from every skin cell surrounding the penetration. I repeated the motion. The ‘oh so familiar’ motion. His eyes had gone white, the balls popping out almost from strain at the jugular, bloodshot. But it did not end there. 20 more times I thrust. Deeper and with heightened anguish with each stab. My hands were red with lust for blood. Lust for revenge. Reclaiming my loss of worth. 20 times over the splinters struck the clammy, hot skin and then I regained some aspect of reality, but still in my mental state dragged the inert corps through the still open door and through into the muddy, rain bespattered garden.  I dragged him at least 200metres from the dim kitchen porch lantern, looking back every 5 steps to check there were no witnesses, there was narrow lake at the end, and I rolled the bulk with effort, down the slope, heard the splash, returned to the house.

They had all been sleeping. I had climbed the crimson stairs in wonderment as to where they had vanished to. Coveted positions lay strewn across the stale bedroom, boy and girl overlapping loins with each other, in positions normally unthinkable. I stumbled to the bathroom, looked at my swaying reflection in the mirror. Red. My face now had some colour. I had quickly regained my clothes from the room, what was left of them. Ripped from their seams, the plain garments were all I had as some form of respect. I took a shower. The inside of my legs was sore. I couldn’t touch it; it felt as if with every movement it was ripping, slowly, just so every little strand could disappear. Tears streamed down my face, although I couldn’t distinguish which were tears and which was the lukewarm water. I staggered out, in a mad flurry and grabbed the magnolia towel from the rails. Bad idea. As I wrapped it round me I saw dots of cherry sporadically placed all over. And I remembered. Dropping the towel I put on my rags, and dried myself with a black jumper, then picked up the dotted towel, went downstairs, out into the rain, released it into the muddy ground and kneaded it into the soil.

I returned to the crabby smelling bedroom, to see one couple in action and soft murmurs prevailing from the half decently positioned covers.

I went downstairs again. I slept in that room.