To kill a man

NOTE: This short story contains themes of domestic abuse, murder, and homophobia.

Rage. Fear in my heart. Not for myself but for what is mine. Policemen, firefighters, and medics surrounded the bookstore, firing streams of water to douse the flames. They burned as bright as my rage. Emergency surrounded me, coddling me like a baby – I acted the part. But inside that thrum of fear beset as if it had a heart of its own.

The town of Croyden had always been a peaceful place, save for the one time Ted Bundy ran through the place back in the 70s. Croyden’s population never exceeded two thousand since its establishment in the 20s. It was a place where even “somebodies” could become “nobodies.” Such was the case with a young Hollywood starlet who became nothing more than a whisper in the wind after her untimely death during a visit to her mother.. For years it remained quiet, untouched, unnoticed until Robert Howard Cossack – mayor of Croyden and UPenn graduate disappeared in 1997, leaving behind his wife Helen and his infant daughter. His disappearance came as a shock to everyone. As the town’s first newcomer in several decades, there wasn’t one resident who hadn’t heard of him. He gave hope to those who hadn’t already lost it; the hope of being more than irrelevant.

The man was a great pretender and an even better liar. Nobody knew that, save for his wife. In her entire marriage to Rob, she only made two public appearances, one during his inauguration and the other at the police station to provide an alibi the day after his disappearance was reported.

It’s been twenty years.

Robert Cossack’s Name is nothing more than a whisper in the wind. Helen raised her son alone. He's attending a university out-of-state now — Helen's wishes.

Even though Helen made sure to never bring unnecessary attention to herself, bad luck always had its way of finding her.

~~~~~~~~~

Helen was a mess. a big swollen purple eye and a jacket cut on her lip marred her face. The thrum of pain from under her shirt–her tender, green ribcage—caused the stitch in her expression. Her fingers clasped around the edge of her frayed skirt — taking the fabric as if willing it to cover her knees, to cover the marks on her thighs. All of this and she couldn’t even cry.

“Why do you let him do this to you? How could you do this to yourself — to me?” the woman beside her cried, her voice laced with anguish. The fury in her words was unmistakable. Helen’s green eyes locked with the woman’s brown ones. Pain met pain — and how it raged

Helen Couldn’t bring herself to answer. Not to her.

“Helen please,” the woman pleaded, “not him. Anyone but him.” The comfort of a body encased her in a cocoon. The arms, protective as a mother’s, reaching behind her neck as if to make a promise of safety, set her mind in a heavy fog. Her warm breath against her neck, her gentle, soft kisses.

~~~~~~~~~

Rage, betrayal, white hot rage. Even as morning made its daily advance, the fire in my heart — the uncertainty — ached. As I woke up that day, dressed and felt the running of worn fabric under my fingertips, I was calm for a moment. Until I released the breath I did not know I held. There, in the calm of the morning, I alone was awake.

~~~~~~~~~

Getting my keys, starting the car, driving braking, parking, walking. The yellow caution tape plastered around the scene covered in ash didn’t prepare me for the sight. My shop had burned down. And I knew who burned it.

~~~~~~~~~

“If you could be granted one wish, what would it be?” the woman asked, her fingertips gliding across the surface of Helen’s hair.

“One wish?” Helen contemplated for a moment before replying, “Some nice shoes for Ethan. I haven’t gotten around to shopping since the hospital. Pretty soon, he’ll really start to outgrow some of the clothes.”

A moment of silence passes between the two before the woman speaks, “You dream too small.”

“Haven’t you heard that good things come in small packages?”

“I’m talking about doing something good for yourself.”

“I would be doing good for myself –”

“And you don’t even think for a second about getting some perfect victory on thug?

“I can’t just leave, you know that’s not how things work.”

The other woman stares into Helen’s eyes, she reaches out her hand to hers, brushing her fingertips over her knuckles. “Make him leave you.”

“And how the hell would that work?”

“...You learn to kill a man.”

~~~~~~~~~

Helen’s chin split open on the corner of the coffee table.

She hit the floor hard, her elbow slamming against tile as she scrambled to breathe. The wind knocked from her lungs, her mouth opened but no sound came out — just a strangled, choked sob as she dragged herself upright on the rug, one trembling hand clawing for the couch leg.

“You wanna try hiding again, Helen?” her husband barked, towering over her. His breath reeked of whiskey and something fouler — something rotten, like decay. “You think I don’t know what you did?”

“I don’t—” she gasped. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” he hissed, yanking her upright by her hair. Her body folded at the waist, her face bent up toward his. “That Maria wasn’t it. The fucking cleaning lady?”

Her lip quivered. “I was just helping—”

The back of his hand cracked across her face.

A muffled cry burst from her lips, and she slumped back to the floor, cheek bright red and sticky. The air seemed too thick to swallow. His boot nudged her ribs — once, twice. Not hard, just enough. Enough to remind her who she was bound to.

Then, a knock at the door.

His attention shifted toward the front window. Helen whimpered, curling into herself, her pulse leaping to her throat. The knock came again. A slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Not an inch,” he said slowly, and she didn’t dare move.

He crossed the room in heavy strides, cracking his neck and straightening the collar of his shirt before swinging open the door.

And there she stood.

The maid: Maria. Her lipstick was dark. Her blouse, spotless. And her eyes — God, those eyes — burned with something unholy and ruthless.

She raised her arm. Cold steel met the space between his eyes.

“Back up,” she said evenly.

“What the hell is this?” He blinked. Confusion flickered into fear — not fast enough.

Maria’s eyes were cold. She had her own unstoppable resolve. “You hurt something I own. You know Rob, I don’t forgive.”

The walls around the front door seemed to shake. The bullet punched through his skull, as if he were made of paper. His body fell to the ground, twitched once, then stilled. Blood seeped into the foyer tile, filling the grout.

Helen screamed.

She covered her mouth with both hands, stumbled back, and slid down the wall. Her chest heaved like she might drown in her own sobs. But Maria didn’t speak. She didn’t comfort. She simply stepped over the body, calm as the tide.

After a minute, Helen looked up at her. The silence between them was heavier than the fat body on the floor.

“You—” Helen started. Her voice cracked. “What did you do?”

“What you couldn’t.”

Helen let out a broken, shaking laugh that turned into a sob halfway through. “Oh my God.”

Maria crouched down beside her, brushing blood-matted hair from her cheek. “It’s done,” she said gently. “He can’t hurt you.”

“I—” Helen tried to speak, to form some shape of gratitude or horror, but her throat closed.

“I’ll take care of the rest. Cops will be here soon enough. And when the time comes,” Maria continued, “if anyone comes asking — you say nothing. You weren’t here. You were with me.”

“You were with me,” Helen repeated, almost in a trance.

~~~~~~~

I heard the crackle of gravel behind me. I knew who it was. It was her. I turned around to look behind me. “Helen.”