Goodnight

“He’s led a good life.” 

Sonia gently pats her daughter’s hand. I know she assumes I’m asleep, although both my family and the staff have begun to refer to me in third person with infuriating regularity. Little Jenny is crying quietly; whether from the gravity of situation or the unfortunate stench of the hospital room, I cannot determine.

What an interesting choice of words to attempt to comfort the child. A good life. It all seems rather bland and subjective. How does one perceive the term “good”? Does the mind conjure images of a smiling policeman? Soft chocolate-chip cookies, freshly baked on the kitchen counter? Laughter on a sunny day? Is there even the remotest joy in a goodbye? Perhaps the medication is kicking in. I feel lucid, mostly. As long as nobody requires me to pass the tissues.

I dwell for too long on the empty sentiments. There hasn’t been much else to do, recently. The pain is mostly manageable, but from the sounds the nurses make I’m confident there’s slim chance of it improving. Sonia has been visiting but frankly I’d rather be alone. It’s embarrassing to lie here listlessly in front of her. A good life? Well, I suppose if some ethereal instrument were measuring up my chances of post-mortal bliss, she’d tip the scales in my favour. Sonia was an obedient, doting daughter. Never asked too many questions; she got that from me presumably, god knows the same couldn’t be said for her mother. Worked hard at school, made a decent casserole, left home and married swiftly at the age of 18. A little plain, but kind, with a gentle temperament. What was it she does now? Letters, but not M.D., I snicker to myself internally. Could it be PR? I’m not entirely sure what that means, but it seems to bring her family a steady income and she doesn’t bother me for much. Which is good.

Before she was born I daresay I had a good time. A great time, even. Does that count, oh divine judge? I was an excellent dancer – oh yes, very good indeed. How I ache to stretch this once lithe and limber carcass. My jive had the girls falling over each other to pass the evenings with me. Naturally, I only had eyes for Stella. Her demure smile and tight waist still make my feeble heart hammer away at my ribs; as if, like my feet, in perfect time to the quickstep. I was generous and patient with her, and if somehow it were a competition, I won first place. Things changed when the baby came. I don’t care to dwell on it. It was to be expected.

While I’m stating my case, I was always good with numbers. The calculator couldn’t keep up with me, and nor could the taxman, making me the most sought after accountant in town. There’s no need for modesty now – it’s true. Had I the strength, or the slightest desire, I’d teach my 3 pillars of success; secrecy, organisation, and a rigorous right hemisphere. They came in handy outside of work, too. Weak as my body has grown, my logic skills haven’t faltered for even a moment. I am reminded of a cartoon in the Sunday paper, its context lost in the depths of time, but the sketch more relatable now than ever. A brain in a jar, how amusing. That’s a good one.

Sonia and Jenny have left. I suppose it’s getting late, though the time of day makes little difference to me. Soon I’ll sink blissfully further into my drug induced delirium. The process could certainly hurry itself somewhat; my sudden awareness of my surroundings has me frustratingly reminded of the uncomfortable crust of sauce that pooled earlier in the crevice of my shoulder, went ignored, and now itches like an old scab. Rather than pity, I feel nothing but scorn and irritation for myself. This useless vessel has served its purpose. Doomsday lurks beyond the horizon, and until that moment comes I return to considering my posthumous fate. What else was I good at? Certainly, my extra-curricular activities would afford me some admiration. Perhaps I’m biased, but the facts alone show what a sterling job I have done. 34 years have passed without anybody finding the bodies. How talented I was! The art of seduction, the strength in the asphyxiation, the stealth of the disposal. Saliva escapes the corner of my mouth, but nobody is here to witness my pathetic inability to control my bodily functions, so momentarily I do not care. Here in my mind, I can find solace. I am young again, powerful and controlled. Time can seize my youth, demolish my power, but never can it ravage my wicked memories.

Before Stella, I had only killed animals. I’m almost certain the first was an accident. I’d slammed the door to stop the kitten from escaping, but alas a moment too late – rather than devastation, I’d experienced a morbid curiosity, and my pudgy eight-year-old hands prodded the creature’s corpse with all the fixings of an amateur surgeon. Mother had unwittingly supplied me with ample opportunity to relive the incongruous experience, by replacing one pet with another, then another. I’d learn to carefully space out the accidents and disappearances so as not to arouse suspicion. This was where I’d honed my skills. Remember: secrecy, organisation, right hemisphere.

Oh, and there was Joyce. It was as simple as driving home from the petrol station on a late autumn Tuesday. With a friendly smile and the offer of a warm ride, the teen was almost too easy to take. Sonia may have been right. I’d led a good life… depending on who you asked.

Honestly, I’m not certain of the next girl’s name - damn this aged grey matter. I’m beginning to grow weary. Lifeless faces blur into each other now. Perhaps it’s no good remembering. Perhaps I ought to admit defeat. I feel myself slipping uselessly out of my body. It is time. My eyes flutter closed as the ward nurse cheerfully bleats out from around the door.

“Lights out! Goodnight.”