Removing the Stain

“I’m sorry, Betty Rose.”

Her fingers curled into a fist, a weak one but still her nails were touching her palm. It took a lot of effort but it gave her a bit of solace as did the irony of it. A short hour ago—or was it longer?—she was able to clutch a knife that the devil himself wouldn’t have been able to pry from her hands.

Her gaze lifted to look out the window at the vast whiteness. The white blanket of snow covered everything. Well, almost everything. The leafless, grey trees that dotted her yard and acted like a barrier to the horrors of the other house across the field, were like pillars of death. Not that she’d ever seen them that way before but now she couldn’t shake that thought.

The only other blemish was the slash of red that dared to mar the pristine beauty. A trail that led from that house, the one she had grown up in, to hers.

If her grandmother hadn’t taken her in at fifteen, she wasn’t sure where she’d have ended up. Pregnant and an embarrassment to her family, she’d been kicked out. No one had wanted to listen to how she’d gotten pregnant or by whom. They’d wanted her gone. Her grandmother, who was not known for her kinder side, had opened her door. But Betty Rose had to work for her keep. Sunup to sundown. Cinderella had nothing on her. It had been a tough life but at least she’d had a roof, a bed, and food. Her son hadn’t had much but he’d been warm and fed.

She tried not to think of her boy too much. It hurt. It had been ten plus years since she’d seen him. Since they’d talked. She wasn’t even sure where he was. So often she’d wanted to tell him the truth about how he had come to be, about who his father was, but she couldn’t hurt him that way. Besides, he’d have just hated her more. She hadn’t meant to teach him to hate but there was a time that was all that lived in her soul. From the moment that man had touched her, she’d changed. That tiny spark of curiosity and a love of discovery had been snuffed out in an instant. Not that she’d ever been popular or all that much fun but she’d had plans. She’d wanted a better life. At one time, she’d been going to save the earth. To keep nature beautiful and free.

The red slash across the land, reminded her how far she was from that goal. She’d marred yet another thing she loved.

Her head wobbled a bit, she braced her forearm on the table and stiffened her back. She wasn’t ready to give in yet. The sun beat down on the white blanket with a brilliance that made it glisten. The red trail that led straight to her door, gleamed like a beacon, making sure that the authorities would know where to go.

The wind whipped up, snapping the branches of the bush against the wood siding of the house. The swish-smack reminded her of the switching her father had given her when he’d found out about her condition. Her body stiffened reawakening the pain of the old scars that marred her back. It might have been thirty-five years but she could feel the agony and humiliation, as though it was happening all over again.

Her right hand pressed tightly against her side. It hadn’t left there since she’d stumbled out the door, falling to her knees. Not because of the horror or what she’d done but because of the shock that he’d managed to nick her.

He wouldn’t hurt anyone else ever again.

At one time, she’d thought he was amazing. As her teacher he’d shown her she wasn’t stupid. He’d taught her about the beauty of numbers and how adding and subtracting and multiplying was magic not mystery.

But then he’d taken advantage of that innocent girl. The one that thought he was the positive difference in the world. The beautiful, generous kind. But he was pure evil hiding inside the skin of a false man. He was no different than the ugliest most demoralizing people of the world. What she hadn’t known then was that she wasn’t the only victim. Since no one had believed her that her teacher, the principal of the school, would do something so horrific, she’d thought she was alone. She’d learned to shut up as she had to assume the others had as well.

He'd gotten to retire, quietly, with his pension, after forty years. There was a bit of a cloud hanging over him but nothing had been written in the newspaper about what he’d done. Or supposedly had done. But the gossip mill was alive and well. He’d raped—attempted to rape—the wrong woman. She’d had proof but somehow, he’d made the charges go away. The woman had moved away to get away from the disease of people’s disbelief and name calling. He hadn’t been charged. He’d been handed an award for his dedication and service.

It had sparked something, though. Other stories had started to surface. Although, none of it ever seemed to touch him.

The man was unsinkable.

As if that depraved way of living and what he’d done to her wasn’t enough, he’d done the unthinkable. He’d stolen her parents’ farm from under them. It would never have gone to her as they had disowned her but that man had the nerve to buy it for a tenth of what it was worth.

Her parents had needed to move to a nursing home. He’d taken advantage of that. And she, Betty Rose, had to learn about it all from a conversation she overheard at the grocery store.

He’d had to pay. If not for her, for her parents’ who might hate her but they hadn’t understood. For the thirty other women that she now knew might only be a sliver of the many he’d abused. How many kids had he produced? Hers was but one of how many?

No matter what he’d done, he’d gotten to live free. Never having had to pay for his atrocities either legally or through the weight of a conscience that should have been boulders weighing him down. Yet… nothing. Instead, he moved to the country, not only to her family home but right in her line of sight. Mocking her.

It had been too much. She hadn’t planned on killing him when she’d gone over there. She had just wanted to talk. To tell him that he was slime and that she would go forward and tell her story. She’d make that backwoods town… community… country listen to her. Not just for her but for all the women he and others felt it was there right to take advantage of.

Twelve hundred steps. Her lips curled upwards. She really had no idea how many steps there were between the two houses but at ten years old, when she’d loved that walk, she’d counted. There had been twelve hundred steps.

Through the hard crusted snow, it might have been more… or less. It had been a bit of a walk getting there but nothing compared to the stumbling, falling run from that place. Pain sliced through her side, reminding her of what she’d done.

Evidence? What had she left behind. She looked down at her marred shirt and pants. Tears pricked her eyes. Maybe she was a slut. She’d worn a yellow tank top. White capris. In the dead of winter. It had been a gorgeous day but still… She’d wanted him to see her. To know that she had moved on. That she looked damn good.

Vanity will kill you.

Her grandmother’s words sliced through her mind like a razor blade, shutting down her thoughts. She had been stupid. Maybe she had deserved what she’d gotten.

The wind howled as though frustrated at not being able to lift any of the hardened snow. Grey, black clouds were rolling in from the horizon. Snow. They would bring snow. Would it get there in time to hide the obvious evidence, the red stain, which lead right to her?

She’d worn a poncho. Had she left it behind? She had a vague memory of grabbing it from the hook she’d hung it on inside the door. The one that she’d hung her backpack on during her school days. She’d been amicable when he’d opened the door and invited her in. Isn’t that the way that neighbors were supposed to act? Maybe that’s why she’d snapped. She had been hating every second of that false persona she’d been portraying. Her mom would have praised her for being so pleasant, though.

But it hadn’t lasted. His slithering words and innuendos had flipped a switch.

She cocked her ear. Sirens? There was a sound way off in the distance. It wasn’t quite distinguishable but it might be the police. Or an ambulance. Who would have called them? There was no one out that way but her and her now deceased neighbor.

He was dead. Wasn’t he?

Had she really grabbed his butcher knife from the counter? From the block that he’d just put it into? He’d been mocking her as he’d unpacked, putting things where her mother would never have. Telling her how great it was that they were going to be neighbors. How great it would be to get to know each other again. His tone had suggested that he was expecting service. From her. How could he think that she’d ever allow him near her again? How could he not understand her anger?

His eyes had traveled down the slim fitting outfit she’d worn. Why had she been so stupid?

He’d ignored her words. He’d ignored his injustices that she’d listed for him. Instead, he’d praised her for taking care of her body. So many her age let their waistline go. Kind of like he had. The real image of him on top of her on his desk melded with the ugly, fat man he’d become.

A pot belly pig was the last sane thought she’d had before she’d grabbed the knife and lunged.

The first hit had gotten him in the shoulder. The blade had bounced off, ripping his skin and the meat below but it hadn’t been deadly. That’s when he’d grabbed the pocketknife he’d been using to open boxes. He’d sliced her belly. It had hurt but had only enraged her further. She’d swung that kitchen knife like a sword slashing him wherever she could. He’d been a curled ball of bloody mass mewling like a weak kitten when she’d left.

What had she done with the knife? It had her fingerprints on it. Had it slipped through her fingers on her way home?

A pain in her lower leg snapped through her thoughts with an immediacy, demanding her attention. She glanced down. There was blood pooling around her feet. Her bare feet. Her boots, had she kicked them off when she’d walked in? They’d been full of his blood. She stretched out her leg to see it better. How had he cut her leg? She had a vague memory of a sharp but swift pain in her leg before she’d left. Had he lashed out?

He couldn’t be alive. He’d been cut many times. Bleeding out with each heartbeat. She had killed him.

She’d gotten her revenge, not just for herself but for all the women he’d wronged and for all those who had believed in his lies.

Her left hand slid across the table, touching the document laid out so it was easy to read. Signing it had been the last thing she’d done before she’d left. It was her will, leaving everything to her son. It wasn’t much, just that property, the house and all her belongings. He probably wouldn’t want it but… it was all she had for him. The sealed envelope beside it, had his name, Josh, on it. It held the story of her life. Of the hurt and pain, she’d endured along with most of the truth about the man, his father, that the police were going to find, bled out on her parents’ kitchen floor. It held the details of everyone he had hurt. Hopefully, her son would understand.

Her fingers traced her son’s name scribbled in her messy handwriting across the front of the pristine white envelope. Only now there was a slash of red staining it. She’d ruined it.

Nothing every stayed pure.

The police would be able to find her son. Hopefully. If not, they’d have all the evidence, she’d spent months gathering, on the man who had abused her and the system he used to find his victims. His sins would become public knowledge. Those who hadn’t listened wouldn’t be able to turn a blind eye, anymore.

Had she really not known she’d was going to end that man’s life that day?

She shrugged. Part of her screamed loudly, yes. The more conscious one that she was ready to listen to said, not really sure.

Many would judge her but then they already had, making her the guilty party. The slut. And now, the murderer.

It wasn’t exactly the title she had been looking for but she wasn’t sad about it either. Her body sagged, not in defeat but in weariness. It had been a long fight. She laid her head on the table, her fingers still touching the almost pristine white envelope. It was her last connection to her son.

Everything was getting darker. The dark clouds rolled over the sky like a steam roller. The wind picked up, howling its fury. Every now and then sirens blared through the racket.

The race was on.

Her hand slipped from her side. The blood she’d been trying to stem, now flowed like a stream gurgling it’s way forward. Drip. Drip. Drip. Dripping down onto the floor that had been witness to the birth of her son. She’d had him right there. The pain had been so horrific and scary, she’d collapsed on the floor unable to move. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to. Maybe she’d felt that was all she deserved. All her newborn, bastard son had deserved.

It had left a horrible stain on the old, wooden floor. Her grandmother had made her scrub it until it was gone. It had taken months of hard work, tears, anger and frustration for it to disappear. It was no longer there but she could still see it especially now with its new coat of fresh blood.

“Who will scrub you away?” Her eyes drifted shut for a moment. “I’m sorry, Josh, for looking at you and seeing the horror of what had happened to me. Of letting rancid anger take over my life.”

Her eyes popped open. “I’m sorry, Betty Rose, that you didn’t stand up for yourself and do it sooner.”

Her gaze fixated on the landscape outside her window. The first flake of snow fell. Followed by another. Soon there would be a new blanket of snow but would it be enough to hide the last stain of her life?