She Called Me Sweetheart
From the shadows under the trees that grew behind the garden wall at the back of the house - his house - he watched as the last light went out. He coughed and spat some bloody slime from his broken lung: he knew it would be soon. The after-midnight moon brushed with silver the grey fur of a cat stepping daintily along the top of the wall, the light making lamps of its eyes. The cat turned once, twice in its tracks and leapt from light into shade, pursuing some small scurrying animal into the deep darkness beneath the trees. He watched it go, his imagination making them brothers of the hunt.
As he waited for the hush of the night and the warm, soothing waves of moist summer air to sink the world into sleep he allowed the memories to fill him once more. The cold fire sang within him, tracing its icy way from the pit of his stomach through muscle and nerve until it filled his head with a pure and cleansing rage that fused his intellect and will into a hard, brilliant crystal of hatred.
Perhaps it was true, he reflected, that he’d gone too far in disciplining her that night - he’d been drunk and he remembered nothing of what had happened - but she’d seemed alright the next morning, had given him no hint of inner turmoil, and after all his right to discipline her had been an accepted - for her a needed - part of the relationship for more than four years.
Maybe he had gone too far but hadn’t she understood that he’d had a lousy year? Did she think he’d been drinking like that for fun? How could she simply forget the four years during which he’d nursed her through her own doubts and insecurities; the times when he’d comforted her all night long, gentling her until the desire for death left her and she finally slept?
And she’d behaved normally in the morning, had even smiled and joked as he left for work. It was only when he’d returned home that evening to find the policemen waiting for him outside the empty house that he’d known something was wrong.
The anger suddenly surged within him causing him to shudder, and his teeth to draw blood from his bottom lip, as he recalled the humiliation of the trial and the bleak agony of the two years of voyeurism and violence that was the essence of all they had done to him in the name of psychoanalysis. Two years of twilight existence in a demeaning limbo which marked him as not mad enough to be locked away but not sane enough to be left alone: he hated her most of all for that.
He breathed deeply, willing himself to relax as he filled his lungs with the humid night air. When he felt calm again he lit a cigarette, coughing as the smoke reached his crippled lung. When he had finished the cigarette he tossed the butt behind him, waited for five minutes and then lit another. When he’d thrown away the tenth and final butt he hauled himself over the low wall and headed towards his appointment with revenge.
"I’m coming Melissa," he whispered as his feet hit the wild and ragged grass on the other side, "I’m coming, you bitch!"
***
Nervous, but deliciously so, filled with an excitement that thrilled him, he moved as silent as some predatory spirit from the long-ago folklore of howling desert or empty plain towards the large shed that in happier times had served him as a workshop. As he’d suspected she hadn’t bothered to change the combination on the lock - probably neither she nor her new boyfriend had either the inclination or knowledge to do so - and he was delighted to see that all of his tools, though dusty and somewhat rusted, were still serviceable. He was particularly happy to note, as he brooded on the threshold and surveyed its interior in the dim light from the 40 watt bulb in the ceiling, that the large workbench with its four sturdy legs had been left in place. At the sight of it he recalled with a pang of regret the many hours they’d spent apart, and had yet been united by creative endeavour: she at her easel in the house, he in here mending some broken machine or creating some new plaything for her from wood and metal.
But there was something else he needed. He rummaged through the clutter in the tall steel cabinet that stood against one wall for a few minutes until he found what he was looking for - a small hand-held blowtorch which he’d used mostly for burning ancient paint off whatever he had been refurbishing at the time. Experimentally he tried lighting it and was reassured by the fierce blue flame. More rummaging produced several spare gas canisters - more than enough for his purposes - and some short lengths of stout cord. Perfect!
Placing his treasure trove on the workbench he snapped off the light and sauntered the hundred or so metres that separated the shed from the house, whistling under his breath in pleasure.
***
Entering the house through the conservatory at the rear was even easier than he’d expected. He’d been resigned to making a return journey to the shed to fetch whatever tools he might need to force an entry - and he’d been nervous that the inevitable noise would wake the sleepers upstairs - but, incredibly, the conservatory door was ajar and, more incredibly still, his old key still fitted the lock on the glass door that led from it into the lounge.
In a moment of forgetfulness he found himself resolving to give her a stern lecture for her sloppiness. He felt momentarily giddy and had to suck in a deep breath to steady himself. God, how had he put up with her incredible impracticality for so long? Artistic temperament was something he supposed he understood, but when it distanced you from reality to the point of being a threat...
No matter. He patted the blade of the hunting knife concealed in his inner jacket pocket, savouring the wicked heavy feel of it through the folds of cloth, and moved into the house.
***
He paused for a few seconds inside the lounge to allow his eyes time to adjust themselves to the reduced light - a rapid process since his night vision had always been extremely acute - and as he waited he took stock of the once so-familiar room.
He was glad he’d done so as she seemed to have filled the end of the room in which he stood with her equipment. To his right was a large easel, and everywhere he looked was a bewildering array of tables bearing pots stiff with pencils and pens and brushes. Bottles of ink and tubes of paint were everywhere, even spilling over onto sheets of newspaper spread on the bare boards of the floor. If he’d tried to navigate solely by his memories of the room as it had been when he shared this house with her, he wouldn’t have managed a half dozen steps without bringing something crashing down.
"From Chaos comes Art", he quoted (or misquoted, he wasn’t sure) to himself with a sneer. Oh, he’d come a long way tonight to show her what Art really was...
Gingerly he picked his way through the clutter and made his way towards the spiral staircase that climbed from the front of the lounge to the upper storey, wincing at every creak from the wood beneath his feet.
***
At the top of the staircase the winding stairs left him facing towards the back of the house. Breathing heavily - but quietly - he halted. Doors led off the narrow corridor on either side of him, but the only one which held any interest for him lay at the end of the corridor, immediately opposite where he now stood. He could see the open door of the large bedroom whose light he’d watched go out from where he’d lurked among the trees, and by now his eyes were so well-adjusted to the gloom that he could even dimly make out a corner of the bed in which she must be lying.
He reached into his jacket, pulled the knife from its concealment and waited for a few seconds more to taste in anticipation, like some long-awaited treat, his approaching triumph - it would be soon - before creeping as silently as the bare floorboards (why hadn’t he insisted on the carpets he’d wanted?) would allow him to do towards the open door.
***
Peering through the doorway he saw that she lay wrapped in the arms of her new lover, presenting a picture so tender that for a moment his eyes misted with tears. He was slim and muscular, and so like the way he had been when they’d first met that for a moment he was lost in remembering...
And then the anger, the hatred, came back to claim him. He ran the remaining distance to the bed and plunged the knife into the throat of the sleeping man. And at once blood was everywhere, great gouts of it leaping from the wound and spraying thickly over him, the walls, the sheets, Melissa, everything. For a moment he recoiled in horror - nothing he’d ever seen or imagined had prepared him for this - but he recovered almost instantly when he saw her eyes opening.
"Remember me?" he hissed at her, and, seeing the recognition come and her mouth opening on a scream, he slammed a fist into her jaw and hurled her back into the darkness.
***
Negotiating the spiral staircase with her limp body slung over one shoulder had proved to be much more difficult than he’d imagined, and by the time he’d staggered under the burden as far as the shed he was gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. He was still a strong man, lean and hard with bunched muscle under the bloodied suit, but he was no longer a fit man - the last two years had taken a terrible toll on his body as well as his mind - and he was trembling with the exertion as he strapped her down to the workbench, binding each of her limbs firmly to one of its legs.
Still, he’d managed it in the end, and he permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction as he contemplated her naked body - as perfect in its every detail as he’d remembered it - and the rich lustre of her hair glowing red and gold against the dark and pitted wood.
He waited patiently now, and at peace, until he saw her eyelids flicker and her mouth begin to move against the oily rag with which he’d gagged her. He lit the blowtorch and set to work.
***
Rage and desire took his hands and pulled him into madness as he toiled there amongst the coils of smoke, his eyes smarting and his nostrils weeping from the stinging assault of burning flesh and hair. He worked on, delirious, furious, carving from the artist a work of art - his art - as beautiful in the intensity of its passion as anything she herself had ever created.
He worked on, immersed in the act of creation, until something - some glazing of her eyes - warned him that the end was near. Her mouth moved purposefully against the gag and he tore it away, anxious to hear from her in the end some appreciation of his skill: some harsh words, some final mouthing of pain and hatred to acknowledge and crown his artistry.
"Oh," she said.
He waited, trembling with excited expectation.
"Oh sweetheart." And all of his hopeless, soured love for her rose up to drown him. As she died he began to weep: he wept for her, and for him; for his loss and for hers. And he knew that he would never, ever stop weeping again.
With fumbling fingers he inserted a fresh canister into the blowtorch, ignited it and set it reverently on the bench at her feet. He drew up a chair and set to work a final time.
***
They found him in the morning, still facing the burned-out torch, and beating with his fingerless, blackened fists at his temples. His body was convulsed with violent sobbing, but no tears could come from the charred, lidless pits which had once held his eyes.
All he would say, over and over, was "she called me sweetheart."
As he waited for the hush of the night and the warm, soothing waves of moist summer air to sink the world into sleep he allowed the memories to fill him once more. The cold fire sang within him, tracing its icy way from the pit of his stomach through muscle and nerve until it filled his head with a pure and cleansing rage that fused his intellect and will into a hard, brilliant crystal of hatred.
Perhaps it was true, he reflected, that he’d gone too far in disciplining her that night - he’d been drunk and he remembered nothing of what had happened - but she’d seemed alright the next morning, had given him no hint of inner turmoil, and after all his right to discipline her had been an accepted - for her a needed - part of the relationship for more than four years.
Maybe he had gone too far but hadn’t she understood that he’d had a lousy year? Did she think he’d been drinking like that for fun? How could she simply forget the four years during which he’d nursed her through her own doubts and insecurities; the times when he’d comforted her all night long, gentling her until the desire for death left her and she finally slept?
And she’d behaved normally in the morning, had even smiled and joked as he left for work. It was only when he’d returned home that evening to find the policemen waiting for him outside the empty house that he’d known something was wrong.
The anger suddenly surged within him causing him to shudder, and his teeth to draw blood from his bottom lip, as he recalled the humiliation of the trial and the bleak agony of the two years of voyeurism and violence that was the essence of all they had done to him in the name of psychoanalysis. Two years of twilight existence in a demeaning limbo which marked him as not mad enough to be locked away but not sane enough to be left alone: he hated her most of all for that.
He breathed deeply, willing himself to relax as he filled his lungs with the humid night air. When he felt calm again he lit a cigarette, coughing as the smoke reached his crippled lung. When he had finished the cigarette he tossed the butt behind him, waited for five minutes and then lit another. When he’d thrown away the tenth and final butt he hauled himself over the low wall and headed towards his appointment with revenge.
"I’m coming Melissa," he whispered as his feet hit the wild and ragged grass on the other side, "I’m coming, you bitch!"
***
Nervous, but deliciously so, filled with an excitement that thrilled him, he moved as silent as some predatory spirit from the long-ago folklore of howling desert or empty plain towards the large shed that in happier times had served him as a workshop. As he’d suspected she hadn’t bothered to change the combination on the lock - probably neither she nor her new boyfriend had either the inclination or knowledge to do so - and he was delighted to see that all of his tools, though dusty and somewhat rusted, were still serviceable. He was particularly happy to note, as he brooded on the threshold and surveyed its interior in the dim light from the 40 watt bulb in the ceiling, that the large workbench with its four sturdy legs had been left in place. At the sight of it he recalled with a pang of regret the many hours they’d spent apart, and had yet been united by creative endeavour: she at her easel in the house, he in here mending some broken machine or creating some new plaything for her from wood and metal.
But there was something else he needed. He rummaged through the clutter in the tall steel cabinet that stood against one wall for a few minutes until he found what he was looking for - a small hand-held blowtorch which he’d used mostly for burning ancient paint off whatever he had been refurbishing at the time. Experimentally he tried lighting it and was reassured by the fierce blue flame. More rummaging produced several spare gas canisters - more than enough for his purposes - and some short lengths of stout cord. Perfect!
Placing his treasure trove on the workbench he snapped off the light and sauntered the hundred or so metres that separated the shed from the house, whistling under his breath in pleasure.
***
Entering the house through the conservatory at the rear was even easier than he’d expected. He’d been resigned to making a return journey to the shed to fetch whatever tools he might need to force an entry - and he’d been nervous that the inevitable noise would wake the sleepers upstairs - but, incredibly, the conservatory door was ajar and, more incredibly still, his old key still fitted the lock on the glass door that led from it into the lounge.
In a moment of forgetfulness he found himself resolving to give her a stern lecture for her sloppiness. He felt momentarily giddy and had to suck in a deep breath to steady himself. God, how had he put up with her incredible impracticality for so long? Artistic temperament was something he supposed he understood, but when it distanced you from reality to the point of being a threat...
No matter. He patted the blade of the hunting knife concealed in his inner jacket pocket, savouring the wicked heavy feel of it through the folds of cloth, and moved into the house.
***
He paused for a few seconds inside the lounge to allow his eyes time to adjust themselves to the reduced light - a rapid process since his night vision had always been extremely acute - and as he waited he took stock of the once so-familiar room.
He was glad he’d done so as she seemed to have filled the end of the room in which he stood with her equipment. To his right was a large easel, and everywhere he looked was a bewildering array of tables bearing pots stiff with pencils and pens and brushes. Bottles of ink and tubes of paint were everywhere, even spilling over onto sheets of newspaper spread on the bare boards of the floor. If he’d tried to navigate solely by his memories of the room as it had been when he shared this house with her, he wouldn’t have managed a half dozen steps without bringing something crashing down.
"From Chaos comes Art", he quoted (or misquoted, he wasn’t sure) to himself with a sneer. Oh, he’d come a long way tonight to show her what Art really was...
Gingerly he picked his way through the clutter and made his way towards the spiral staircase that climbed from the front of the lounge to the upper storey, wincing at every creak from the wood beneath his feet.
***
At the top of the staircase the winding stairs left him facing towards the back of the house. Breathing heavily - but quietly - he halted. Doors led off the narrow corridor on either side of him, but the only one which held any interest for him lay at the end of the corridor, immediately opposite where he now stood. He could see the open door of the large bedroom whose light he’d watched go out from where he’d lurked among the trees, and by now his eyes were so well-adjusted to the gloom that he could even dimly make out a corner of the bed in which she must be lying.
He reached into his jacket, pulled the knife from its concealment and waited for a few seconds more to taste in anticipation, like some long-awaited treat, his approaching triumph - it would be soon - before creeping as silently as the bare floorboards (why hadn’t he insisted on the carpets he’d wanted?) would allow him to do towards the open door.
***
Peering through the doorway he saw that she lay wrapped in the arms of her new lover, presenting a picture so tender that for a moment his eyes misted with tears. He was slim and muscular, and so like the way he had been when they’d first met that for a moment he was lost in remembering...
And then the anger, the hatred, came back to claim him. He ran the remaining distance to the bed and plunged the knife into the throat of the sleeping man. And at once blood was everywhere, great gouts of it leaping from the wound and spraying thickly over him, the walls, the sheets, Melissa, everything. For a moment he recoiled in horror - nothing he’d ever seen or imagined had prepared him for this - but he recovered almost instantly when he saw her eyes opening.
"Remember me?" he hissed at her, and, seeing the recognition come and her mouth opening on a scream, he slammed a fist into her jaw and hurled her back into the darkness.
***
Negotiating the spiral staircase with her limp body slung over one shoulder had proved to be much more difficult than he’d imagined, and by the time he’d staggered under the burden as far as the shed he was gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. He was still a strong man, lean and hard with bunched muscle under the bloodied suit, but he was no longer a fit man - the last two years had taken a terrible toll on his body as well as his mind - and he was trembling with the exertion as he strapped her down to the workbench, binding each of her limbs firmly to one of its legs.
Still, he’d managed it in the end, and he permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction as he contemplated her naked body - as perfect in its every detail as he’d remembered it - and the rich lustre of her hair glowing red and gold against the dark and pitted wood.
He waited patiently now, and at peace, until he saw her eyelids flicker and her mouth begin to move against the oily rag with which he’d gagged her. He lit the blowtorch and set to work.
***
Rage and desire took his hands and pulled him into madness as he toiled there amongst the coils of smoke, his eyes smarting and his nostrils weeping from the stinging assault of burning flesh and hair. He worked on, delirious, furious, carving from the artist a work of art - his art - as beautiful in the intensity of its passion as anything she herself had ever created.
He worked on, immersed in the act of creation, until something - some glazing of her eyes - warned him that the end was near. Her mouth moved purposefully against the gag and he tore it away, anxious to hear from her in the end some appreciation of his skill: some harsh words, some final mouthing of pain and hatred to acknowledge and crown his artistry.
"Oh," she said.
He waited, trembling with excited expectation.
"Oh sweetheart." And all of his hopeless, soured love for her rose up to drown him. As she died he began to weep: he wept for her, and for him; for his loss and for hers. And he knew that he would never, ever stop weeping again.
With fumbling fingers he inserted a fresh canister into the blowtorch, ignited it and set it reverently on the bench at her feet. He drew up a chair and set to work a final time.
***
They found him in the morning, still facing the burned-out torch, and beating with his fingerless, blackened fists at his temples. His body was convulsed with violent sobbing, but no tears could come from the charred, lidless pits which had once held his eyes.
All he would say, over and over, was "she called me sweetheart."
Comments
Post a Comment