Loony Birds

"Goodbye, John," I said.

"Goodbye, Clarissa." He sighed. The tears in his eyes were falling, as I'm sure they were real. He seemed like he meant it as if he wanted me to say something morally vague and stupid. This isn't that kind of breakup, John. Most people don't kiss in the rain unless it's a photoshoot or you want pneumonia on purpose. Don't think I'm going to kiss you goodbye.

What am I supposed to tell our children? What am I supposed to say to his mother? This is going to crush their souls. How would they cope? I mean, maybe Beatrice, John's mother, will figure it out on her own. He will be on the news. I just don't get it, John. I really don't. Why did you do it?

After years and years of watching your husband's behavior, you're supposed to see a pattern. Things he does all the time, things he says all the time, and just the random, quirky movements, all the time. It's a part of loving someone, noticing the little things about your partner. But that's the thing with John. Nothing was ever all the time with him. He had to be the most inconsistent man in the universe. He did everything in his life no more than twice. And if he saw that he exceeded his limit, it was time to turn into a new direction.

I dealt with his lifestyle for years. Years, I said. It drove the kids and his parents insane. I liked it. He always called me his loony bird.

I loved him, I really did. And I love his kids, too. Well, now, my kids. He's not going to be able to see his kids for the rest of his life. That's a shame. Nancy wanted him to take her to the park later today, and Finn wanted to go to the store to buy the new toy airplane model. I obviously told him we'll go get it later.

Nancy is twelve and Finn is six. Neither has met their mother. According to John, she pulled a runner. She's called every now and again, and she spoke to the kids nicely. But when she spoke to John, she turned into this other woman. And she only talked differently to John. Only John. Her name is Mandy. I don't like her very much.

I wonder if everything he did was worth it. The long nights he claimed he was "at work" or "out with friends" should contribute to the last dime to his mind. The chimes of sanity should have gone off for us. But why didn't it ring yet, loony bird? Are the bells mute?

"Ma'am, can you hear me? What's your name?" A blond man waved his hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

I looked at the police officer dead in his deep blue eyes. "It's Clarissa."

"Clarissa, miss, how do you feel? Do you need medical attention? Where are your children?" He asked me. The way his mouth moved was like water, just languid and in unison. Green and gray and brown swirled together as the man spoke. I just stared on. I'm shocked it wasn't in slow motion.

"I'm fine. The kids are at their friend's house for a play date. They won't be back until this afternoon." I simply explained. The cop nodded his head, and his face made an ugly frown. He held his walkie-talkie and repeated my words. When he was done he took a deep breath and looked at me like a sick puppy.

"Did you know of his illnesses? Did he show signs of this type of... dangerous behavior?" He drawled out.

"What sicknesses did he have?" I asked. No, I didn't know he had a sickness. If I did, I'm not sure what I would have done.

"We found his doctor reports that showed his antisocial disorder, bipolar disorder, and OCD."

I blinked. Of course, he showed signs. But how am I supposed to tell this cop that I didn't know what the signs were for? How is this man even existing with me? With his kids? Are Nancy and Finn even his kids? Are they...No. I won't go there. Not right now, in front of all these people. Why John? Why?

God knows he wasn't always like this. People have the ability to change, and for the better or worse is up to them. But John wasn't always like this. He was a good man. We got married on a hill in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but our rings and pastor. He kissed me and at first, I felt nothing, but then he smiled, and sparks flew. My parents were strictly against it. Something about how he was never going to live up to my expectations of a man, and how even if he tried he would never make me happy.

They died a few months later after we eloped. Both of them had died in a fire. I went to the funeral, but I wasn't crying. Neither was John. I don't really know why.

That night we went home, and we were laying in bed. He was caressing my arm, softly, like I was a piece of fine china that he didn't want to break. His face was sullen. I was reading. To Kill A Mockingbird.

"Clarrisa, my loony bird, you'll be with me forever, won't you? Even one of us has to go away?" He said quietly.

I didn't even look up from the book. "Of course, John."

Out of my peripheral, I saw him grimly smile, like he was trying to force it. I think he didn't want to smile because it was supposed to be a day of sadness, but it did it anyway. He fell asleep on my arm, and I felt mildly uncomfortable. But I didn't want to move and wake him. It rained hard that night.

The police officer said he would be right back and left to talk to his colleagues. He put his hands on his hips like a woman, sternly and strict. My eyes went back to John's and he stared me dead in the eye. I stepped back subconsciously.

Why did you have to do this John? I thought we were happy. I thought...nevermind. Clearly, you weren't. No need to upset myself over why you did what you did.

Suddenly my phone rings. I grab it out of my back pocket, already knowing it's his mother. She caught on faster than I thought. I wonder if his father is with her. His sister is in Africa, so she won't know what's going on for a while.

"Clarissa! I'm watching the news right now! Is it true? Did John really kill all those people? All those children?" His mother was never one to beat around the bush. She said it takes too much time. Her voice was loud and frantic, and I could hear his father in the background, sobbing. She was crying too.

"Yes." I simply said. I didn't know what else to say. I'm not in shock, I don't think.

"Oh my God! My poor girl! You didn't deserve this! And the kids! Oh, their little hearts are going to be crushed. How could he do this? Why? I didn't, I couldn't see this coming. And just when I started to actually get used to your little family arrangement. Oh, what is Rebecca going to say..."

Beatrice began to ramble on. I was barely listening. I was too busy drowning within my own thoughts. My thoughts of John.

What would I see if I looked up the symptoms of a serial killer? I couldn't understand the mind of a serial killer. But I thought I knew John. I thought I knew him well, actually. Did John know what he was? Or does he identify himself as something else? A God-given earth cleaner of sins, perhaps?

"Hey Beatrice," I interrupted her. "I am going to have to call you back." I hung up the phone mid-sentence.

"Excuse me, sir," I said. I walked to the cop I was speaking to and tapped his shoulder lightly. He turned around looking pale.

"What's wrong, miss?" He asked me politely.

"What are red flags about a serial killer? Why couldn't I identify him for who he truly was?" I asked.

He tipped his head. "Well," He started. "Most are pyromaniacs, meaning they're obsessed with fire. They are usually predators to people, mostly sexually. They need a sense of control in what they do in day to day life, and they crave certain sensations. Specifically, sensations that might scare people like you and me, like putting your hand near the garbage disposal while its on, or animal cruelty.

"Miss Clarissa, I would like to make myself clear that those are just a few of the large number of things that make the profile of a serial killer. I won't overwhelm you, but just because you didn't know, doesn't make it your fault for what he's done whatsoever. Miss, please don't feel bad."

I smiled. "Okay. Thank you, officer. I appreciate it. Have a good day."

He nodded and walked away. He and the rest of his squad of policemen disappeared down the street.

I turned around and went into the house. Hands shaking, I called back Beatrice. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, Clarissa! How are you feeling sweetheart?"

I wasted no time trying to listen to Beatrice's attempts to soothe me. "I need you to take the kids. Pick them up and take them on some sort of vacation. I don't want to know where." I went upstairs to what used to be John and I's room.

"What? Honey, what's wrong? You love those kids like they're your own. What's going on? I know that today was certainly a troubling day for us all, but you have to be the one to comfort the children in their time of need. They need you."

How do you explain to your mother in law that you might actually be a psychopath? Or what's worse, a possible serial killer? The answer: you don't.

"I, uh, don't really want to talk about it. But I'll let you know later when I'm alright. Tell the kids I love them very much. Be safe. Have fun." The end button was under my finger.

Maybe I just need to leave town for a while. Get some fresh air. I know my life was tough growing up, I did some unmentionable things that I tried to leave behind. But who am I to deny that my past has followed me everywhere I go? All my life I have felt like I was above. I was on top. And I was on top, alone.

But as might it turns out, I'm still as fucked up as I used to be. I played with fire. I loved sex. When I was 14, I was diagnosed with severe OCD. My parents died. And I thought I got help for it all. Silly, stupid me I thought I was past it. That I put it all behind me so I could grow as a better human being. I was far from better, I'll say now.

So why wasn't I sad when John left? Why wasn't I crying when my parents died? Why didn't I like Mandy so much? Why do I feel like this? Why do I not care?

Is this what John felt like all the time? Is this how he felt? Did he have to conform to normalcy to hide the sick monster inside him that yearned to kill, to control, to be the top? Was this him?

Is...is this why I fell in love with him? Because we both...felt sickly? Us, just too loony birds together in one cage?

Because we waved the red flags of insanity? That's not fair.

We didn't think we were.