Envy, Madness, and a Dish Best Served Cold

Madness engulfed him. It seized his thoughts and actions—and before he could stop himself, he thrust the silver serrated blade into Serra’s chest.

He gripped the blade with both hands, even as his heart quailed at the irredeemable act of attempted murder.

   The feeling did not last long. His face curled in a snarl, and with a pitiful, inarticulate cry he stabbed, and stabbed, until Serra’s lips were blue, and her chest drawn tight as she gasped for breath.

     A sharp, hot stitch caused his breath to catch in his throat.

                 “You bitch…” He gazed down. Shock, and clarity both freeing him and dragging him back into a fugue. His eyes did not at first translate what they saw.

   A black, gaping wound, better fit for a battlefield than in a cramped, compost of an apartment gazed back at him.

“You’ve killed me, you bitch.” His voice sounded odd, and not his own.

Idly, he noticed that she had grazed him with her fingernails. Tearing long gashes down his cheeks and tearing his shirt. He hadn’t felt anything— other than a red-hot rage unlike anything that he had felt before.

Tears glazed his unrepentant cheeks, as he stared at Serra’s lifeless corpse. Moonlight betrayed the wreckage of their abode. Paper and furniture were strewn everywhere. The coffee table that they had refinished together lay in scraps, one more victim of the struggle.

*Knock, knock, knock*

“County Sheriffs. Open the door. Now.” Came a demand from the other side, the sound only slightly muffled through the door.

                 “Huh?” Henry held tightly to his side. “How is it so dark?” He asked, small white bubbles on his lips.

                 He sat down.

                 “Sheriffs, open the door. Now!” Came the voice again.

                 When had the moon been taken by clouds?

                 “Sam, take the door, ONE TWO THREE.”

                 On three the door splintered open and hit the doorjamb with a bang. Three County Sheriff’s Deputies charged into the one-bedroom apartment with their weapons in hand.

                 “Weapon.” The first deputy warned; his voice charged with adrenaline.

                 “Drop the fucking knife!” They called out, in unison.

                 “Drop. The knife.” The first deputy repeated, in a calmer voice. A. Gonzalez was written on a gold pin on her tan uniform. 

                 “He’s fucking wasted.” The third deputy, Deputy S. Sunshine called out. He flicked out a size twelve men’s boot and effortlessly kicked the knife from Henry’s hand.

                 Henry stared at his now empty hand, as if his mind could not process all that he was seeing.

                 “She got him good.” Deputy G. Charr, the second Deputy said, and she holstered her weapon. Her gaze flicked to the butcher knife curled in Serra’s lifeless hands, stained crimson to the hilt.

                 “Should we handcuff him?” Deputy G. Charr, eyed Henry critically. The small white bubbles having turned a pinkish, ominous shade.

                 Henry toppled, his hand soaked, a mixture of his blood and Serra’s. “Fuck.” He attempted to say, but the effort did not make it past his lips.

                 Deputy Sunshine chuckled, “Guess we don’t have to.” He bent down to inspect Henry’s wounds. I’m dying. I’m fucking dying. That bitch. Why? His hopes were high as the Deputy bent down, presumably to assist, but instead he placed two long fingers into Henry’s bleeding wound.

  He did not smile, or laugh, but Henry recognized the amusement in the Deputy’s eyes as he pushed his fingers deeper and deeper. Henry could hear the Deputy’s fingers as they made a squishing sound. His mouth opened to scream, but the Deputy’s hand covered his mouth.

                 “Third time is a fucking charm.” The Deputy whispered, low enough that only Henry could hear him. “I’ve had enough of trash like you and I’m tired of you scumbags wasting—everything. Do you like to hurt girls, you little shit?”

                 Deputy S. Sunshine smiled. The light never entered his eyes.

                 “I like to hurt girls too, or well… little bitches like you.” He smiled, and Henry’s mouth gawped, just as Serra’s had a few minutes prior.

                 “This one’s gone too.” Deputy S. Sunshine lied to his fellow officers with a smile.

                 I’m not. I’m not dead. Serra…

                 “Please—” He managed to say, before the Officer’s eyes turned hard and cold.

                 “No… you won’t be hurting any girls anymore Mister. Not. Ever. Again.”

                 The other deputies left through the battered door, gone to canvas the neighborhood, per Deputy S. Sunshine’s recommendation. Leaving the two of them alone.

                 God no. I don’t want to die…

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. His vision turned black, as his brain was starved of oxygen.

The last thing that Henry saw was the Deputy’s hands wrapping around his throat, squeezing the life from him,

************************************************************

                 His mind was adrift in a sea of memories, most long since forgotten.

                 Their hands had drifted together, naturally, as leaves floating a river to the sea. Together.

                 It had always been that way, from the first day that they had met. Their first date had been kisses and sunshine. 

                 It had taken little more than a week for Henry to muster up the courage to ask Serra to be his girlfriend. She had said, as was typical for her, “Of course I’m your girlfriend! Silly boy.” Her eyes had twinkled with amusement and merriment.

                 A week later they had been living together, unofficially until time had released them of their separate leases. It was bliss. 

                 Henry had thought it all normal. Serra had been perfect, and never like the other girls.

                 No, not Serra. Serra had been light and sweet. Together they had been that annoying couple, the one always sharing inside jokes, and laughing at the things that could, he would admit, be considered annoying.

Someone was perturbed at their bliss.

                 That someone was Esme.

                 She been obsessed with him since they had been in the second grade together. Had Henry ever returned her care or loving remarks? No. He had never noticed.

                 At first, she had pretended not to care. A man could not have that power over her, she had lied to herself. A man could never own me she had thought. It had only been in the last several years, as she had watched them bloom together that she had realized something. She hated Serra. She hated her blond hair, and her perfect complexion. She hated her kindness, and how she was always looking out for other people, even strangers. Smug whore.

                 Soon, the love that she had for Henry had become something else… something twisted and false. She had hated him.

                 Where did that come from? Henry voiced the thought. He wasn’t sure whether he was confused or terrified.

                 A soft tinkling laugh echoed Henry’s thought.

                 “We’re in this together now, aren’t we.” He heard, in an intimate tone. Heard being a vague term. He didn’t think that he had a body, he couldn’t see anything.

                 Where am I. He thought and the voice answered.

                 “Where you belong. Forever.”

                 Henry tried to leave. Wake up. He urged.

                 Cruel laughter met his urgency.

                 “You belong to me now. Henry.” She said his name like a curse.

“Do you want to hear a story, Henry?” The voice asked, he thought it familiar but could not quite place it. It was feminine, almost sultry. Not like Serra’s voice, her voice was confidently female if a tad lower than most women.

                 “I like your voice.” Henry had told her once.

                 She had laughed nastily at herself “I don’t. I sound like a dude.”

                 “Oh shush.” He had held her closer, their naked bodies intwined in embrace. He had kissed her, which then led to… the inevitable. 

                 Serra. Oh fuck. Serra. Remembering. He cried out, his voice echoing his pain.

                 The laughter again.

                 What did I do? I would never harm her… Not even when she hit me that time. He almost laughed at the memory; she had been so mad at him. “I guess I’ve learned not to win at Monopoly.” He had gloated, as he swept the remaining properties and Monopoly money, off the table. His grin that of the viciously victorious Wall Street broker that he had become during their three-hour game.

                 Would I? He doubted himself. Cold, mocking laughter imitated his voice. “Would I?” It said in a singsong voice. “Well, you did. You stabbed that bitch over and over until she DIED. You did it. You watched her die.” The voice added, its tone brittle and harsh, a dam of emotion barely holding, perhaps already broken beyond repair. The waters held back by, anger, hatred, fear?

                 “Esme?” He asked, as he recognized the voice. “Esmerelda Perkins? Is that you?” The voice grew quiet. “What the fuck. It is you, isn’t it? What is wrong with you, say something.”

                 The voice of Esme had grown cold, and quiet, barely that of a whisper.

                 “I am saying--I love you. I have always loved you.”

                 “What!? No, you don’t. This is insane. Esme, I had a crush on you when we were in Mrs. Gutierrez glass in the sixth grade, but even back then, I knew that you were into girls.”

                 “I love you to the moon and back. I love you more than I love myself, I love you more than anyone has ever loved someone—”

                 “No, you don’t. You don’t even like me. Snap out of it. What is wrong with you? Do you hear yourself?”

                 Esme was quiet, but Henry could almost hear her voicing total disagreement.

                 He remembered Esme, a small pigtailed girl with cute dimples, and raven hair that had always had a pink bow. That was her thing, her stylistic choice to distinguish her from all the other girls. Henry had stared at her off and on, a mooncalf struck half-dimwitted by her charm, wit, and cuteness, but she had never looked at him in the same way. She had eyes only for Charlotte.

                 At first, the realization had caused him heartbreak and he had been crestfallen, but as kids do, he had moved past it.

                 It hadn’t bothered him that a girl looked at another girl that way, he just knew that she wasn’t the one for him. She couldn’t be. He had moved on.

                 He shook his head. This wasn’t adding up. This wasn’t making any sense.

                 He ran everything through his head again. Trying, striving to remember how he had gotten to this… place. He was arguing with a disembodied voice, in the supposed comfort of his own mind.

                 Am I awake or dreaming?

                 Did she love me?

                 “You’re a fool.” A voice said softly. Henry thought it Esme’s, but it was so low that he could not be certain.

                 He saw Esme in the hallway of their high school, as if he was there on her shoulder talking (flirting) with Charlotte, but something was not right. Streaming, in rivulets down her youthful cheeks, Charlotte sniffled and choked back gasping sobs.

                 She turned away, and muffled words escaped her distraught young throat as she fled from Esme. Esme’s smile was small, and malicious.

                 Was that glee? That I see? He could not be certain, and uncertainty filled him. For the first time he wondered if he knew Esme as well as he thought he did.

                 “My name is Esmerelda.” Her words were cool, and certain. They bespoke a confidence, an arrogance that he had never heard from her lips before.

                 He had to imagine her, but her words conjured an image that he was certain was real. He imagined her standing and looking down on him with such a look of condescension on her face that it twisted his stomach.

                 When he was a teenager, he had worked a temp job in a gas station, just work to provide him with gas money. It was nothing special. He had cleaned the pumps, cleaned the toilets, and tended the till. Nothing permanent, just temporary.

The way that people had treated him, and how they had looked down on him or through him as if he didn’t exist. As if he was beneath their notice, sub-human, a primate amongst higher life forms. That was the look that he imagined she gave him now.

                 “What do you want from me?” His voice betrayed traces of exasperation, and fear. Don’t show her fear. Some instinct told him, that she was wild, cunning but wild. Was ‘feral’ the right word? It didn’t matter. He knew to measure his words carefully.

                 “Everything.” Her words hit him in the chest with all the force of a bucking horse. What does that mean? He thought that he knew, a part of him clutched at the words and was gripped by fear. It held him in its cold, full hands.

                 He felt himself slacken, and slump. “Fine. Take it. I don’t care anymore. You want to kill me? Do it! I’m… I don’t matter.” His voice had no fight to it, defeated. Am I bluffing? He wasn’t sure…

                 “Do you think that I want you dead? Grow up Henry. If I wanted to kill you I could. I could have pulled your steaming entrails from your gaping chest while you begged me to feed them to you.” She paused, letting her words sink in.

                 “Whatever… you bitch.” He said emotionlessly. His tone as dead as Serra. He still saw her emerald, green eyes, glassy, and lifeless. It didn’t matter if it was real or not, it didn’t matter if he had meant to. Serra was gone. Dead. His heart stopped beating when hers did.

                 “Bitch?”

 “You’re close. So close.” She cackled. “I know you’re in pain.” She crooned. “It is beautiful. I can taste it. You really loved her, didn’t you?”

Her voice reeked of disdain, and faintly, of jealousy.

                 “Yes. Yes, I did… I would never…” His voice trailed off.”

                 “But… you did.” She finished. “You did. By your own hand you blooded her, you made her suck at the air like a fish out of water. You murderer.”

                 “You’re sick. I know it wasn’t me.”

                 “Oh?” She sneered. “Have you puzzled together the truth? Has your feeble, little mind solved the mystery? Child.” Her tone dripped of venom, and he smelled the taint of decay. He would have gagged, but it was a taint of more than the physical.

                 “Let me tell you a story, little worm.” He imagined her sneer, marring an otherwise attractive face. She was an average pretty, but she had never been Helen of Troy. I always thought she was pretty, or at least that she should have been. There had been something about her that as he had grown older that had both attracted and repulsed him.

                 Now he could not avoid shuddering in revulsion every time she opened those slender lips. Her voice was nails on a chalkboard, it made him want to pierce his own eardrums with a sharp object.

                 “Long ago there was a little w—girl, and she had a very important task.” She paused, to collect her thoughts, as if she did not know exactly what she wanted to say. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes, he could tell that she was enjoying this.

                 “That little girl,” she continued, drawing out every syllable and every word in a lecturing tone, “was in a… club, intent on collecting all their badges, and she did—almost. Until there was one left.”

                 “Let me guess, it was the ‘crazy how to be a bitch badge?’”

                 He laughed, it was isolated, lacking all emotion. A rock toppling down a mountain had as much feeling.

                 “Don’t be a spoilsport.” She pouted.

                 “I will give you a hint. You. You were the boy. The club was in fact a coven. My coven.”

                 He cried; the sound bitter.

                 “It’s hard to fall in love with a crazy witch… dyke.”

                 He sensed rather than heard her disapproval, but she did not rise to his bait.

                 “You saw what you were supposed to see, and all was as intended until your little girlfriend got in the way. So good of you to have taken care of that for me.” He felt her eyes on him, and he felt trapped, pinned beneath their gaze.

                 “You’re a real witch. You know that?”

                 She laughed, amused beyond the meaning of his hateful words.

                 “Yes, finally. You hit the nail on the head. I thought that you’d never guess. Men are beasts. Stupid and dull.”

                 His heartbeat sped up, finally she’s getting to the fucking point. He wasn’t altogether sure that he was comfortable with what that point was, but at least the bullshit would be over with, and he’d be freed from this crap...

                 “Fool. Have you not guessed?” She cackled, and appearing before him was a shell of a person. Loose skin, eyes of black malice, wearing a cloak of fingers and toes.

                 She was as much a woman, as a man is a rat.

                 A creature of nightmares, told in old tales.

                 No, a witch; a black-hearted witch.

                 “You will be the trophy to my collection.” She smiled, sharp, carnivorous, and poison her appearance juxtaposed between beauty incarnate, and foul pollution.

She held a finger to her lips, as if having a sudden thought. “Something is missing…” Ah yes, you will both be a fine beginning to my collection.” He heard a small, slow clap.

                 Henry saw Serra, but not as she should be. She shimmered, a faint luminescence surrounding her. After a moment, he noticed it around him as well.

                 “My little precious ones. You will be my crowning achievements.” The witch crooned, and they dwindled and grew smaller, as small as mice.

                 She raised the polished skull of Serra to eyelevel, and licorice-ichor dared to spill the rim. “My coven will be pleased.” She cooed.

Her eyes brimmed with malevolent satisfaction, as she eyed the contents. Mouse-sized, glowing were amidst the ichor; the souls of Henry and Serra forever staring up, entwined, in horror.