The Last One

Tears trickled down his cheek and landed on my lifeless body.

“I’m sorry” He whispered. “I’m sorry this happened to you. They’ll find whoever did this.”

“Do you have any leads?” he asked the detectives, tears still pooling in his eyes.

“None so far, but we’re doing everything we can.” The cop closest to me reassured him; like he meant it. Like there weren’t millions of cases of dead woman just like me piling up on desks all over the country. He and the cop stood next to the autopsy table on my right, while the second cop stood further back, closer to the cooler doors that housed all the other dead bodies. The cop further away kept looking from me to him. Did he suspect? Did he think the handprints around my neck would match his hand? How accurate could a handprint be in identification? They wouldn’t find any fingerprints.

“Please keep me as informed as possible. She meant everything to me. I’ll do anything I can to help find who took her from me.” Did I? Mean everything to him? Is that what it was? Love?

The cops nodded sympathetically as they shuffled out of the autopsy room. He followed them, turning at the door to cast one last look at me, to take in what was left of me. To remember? I wonder if he was thinking of my life. If he was remembering my laugh, or if he was reminiscing on what it felt like to feel my life slip away. To watch the light, leave my eyes.

But my soul didn’t slip away. I didn’t move on into the great beyond. I was still there, and I wanted retribution for what he took from me. I wanted him to burn. Do you know what it’s like to be suffocated? Take a breath and hold it. Hold it until you want to breathe in and then hold it longer. Hold it longer. Hold it longer. Hold it until your lungs feel like they’re burning from the inside out. Hold it until your eyes feel like they’re going to just *pop* right out of your head. Hold it until you can’t possibly hold it any longer and your head starts to swim with the idea of death. Only I never got to breath back in and death crashed into my lungs the way oxygen should have it.

I followed him through the door, down the hallway and into his car. I sat next to him in the passenger seat. I had just been in that seat three days ago. We were going up to the mountains for a weekend getaway. At least, that’s what he called it. But he wasn’t driving backwoods roads then, He was headed to his office. Like seeing my body laid out on a metal table was just another Tuesday. I followed him up into his office and sat in the chair across from his desk. Like I was sitting there for an interview. I watched him all day. I watched him bury himself in spreadsheets, listening to the click, click, click of his mouse and keyboard. I watched him take calls and yell at people who were not performing. I watched the sun go down in the window behind him, painting his office in its golden light as he worked through dinner. If I hadn’t known him, I’d think that was how he was handling my death, but that was just him; Losing himself in work because it was the only thing he could control completely. I waited until the lights went out in the office, until it was just his desk lamp and screen that illuminated his face.

“Gideon” I called out in a soft but barely audible song; like a whisper on the wind, a possibility of what could be. His head snapped up. His face scrunched, like he wasn’t sure what he heard.

“who’s there.” He called out, but he wouldn’t get a response. It was just me and him in that office. It was just me and him in that building. He tried to play it off, like maybe it really was just the wind. When has it ever just been the wind, Gideon? He worked a little longer. Just long enough so he could tell himself he wasn’t leaving because he was scared. I followed him back out to his car, back to the passenger seat. It was late and he headed straight home. Hearing his name, my voice, it shook him more than he’d ever truly understand.

When he got home, he got into the shower, the waterfall pouring from the ceiling like a thunderstorm. A reminder of the life I’d miss, such a mundane part I’d never feel again. A reminder of what he took away from me.

I ran my finger down his spine in the way I know he liked, Just the hint of a touch. He whipped around so quickly I was shocked he didn’t slip. He stared at me, through me. All he saw was the tile wall behind me.

My shampoo was on the ledge. I reached out and tipped it over. He jumped. His stone exterior was starting to break. I could almost see the thoughts running through his head. Is this real? I can’t lose my mind. I must keep it together. He was trying so hard not to lose it. All it took was a whisper, a touch and some spilt shampoo and he was falling apart, his control on himself slipping away. Dying. I wasn’t going to stop there, but it was happening too quickly. I wanted to drag this out. He turned the water off and grabbed his towel, Looking at himself in the mirror like a peacock. I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me, but it only fueled the delusion I was building in his mind. He called out “Is anyone there?” If he only knew.

Without an answer, he got dressed and started wandering the house, looking for someone he wouldn’t find. He headed to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water before heading down the hallway to his bed. My picture still sat on his nightstand. He sat on the edge of his bed as he gazed at it, a small smile playing at his lips like he was reminiscing. I broke the glass. He Jumped up, backing away from the shattered remains littered on his nightstand. He still couldn’t be sure it was me.

“Gideon” I called out. I wanted him to know who it was that had his life in their hands. I wanted him to know who was responsible for the terror on his face, running through his mind, and gripping his heart.

“It’s not real. I just need some sleep.” He spoke to the air. Like I’d ever let him get any rest. He sat back on the bed, reached into the drawer of his nightstand for his Ambien and took two. He was making it too easy. I watched him from across the room as he settled himself into bed. He wasn’t going to get a full night’s sleep, and being delirious from the Ambien was only going to help me. As he drifted off, I wandered through the house. I broke the glass on every picture of me, spider webbing the glass directly over my smiling face. I opened every window, every cabinet door, every kitchen drawer. I turned the temperature down from it’s normal 73 degrees to 58.

Finally, I went back up to his room. I watched him as he slept, watching his chest rise and fall with the oxygen that would never again grace my lungs. I watched as his eyes moved back and forth under his eyelids. Was he dreaming of me? Was he dreaming of the life we had?  I watched him through the night, waiting for the perfect time. At 3am, I was ready.

All the cabinets and drawers in the house snapped shut with a thunderous clap, just as a wind blew, rattling all the windows. He woke with a start, groggily looking around the room as the Ambien fought to keep him in its grasp and there I was standing in the corner. Only this time, I let him see me, just for a moment. Just long enough for him to scramble to turn on the light. The cold of the house hitting him at the perfect time as a shiver racked his body. Did he just see me or was his mind playing tricks on him while still in the thick of sleep? He couldn’t be sure. He crept out of his room, heading down the hallway. The light from his room casting an eerie shadow but giving him just enough light to navigate. Just enough light for him to see every picture cracked. I followed him down the hall, watching his face move from confusion to utter terror. He made his way through the house, again looking for someone he wouldn’t find, he made sure of that.

Once he made sure there was no one in the house, and all the doors were still locked, he made his way to the living room. He took a seat on the couch and stared blankly into the night.

“Gideon, Gideon, Gideon” I called out from different directions of the room, watching as his head snapped which way and that, trying to keep up with where my voice was coming from.

“This isn’t real. You’re dead. I took too many Ambien, and my mind is playing tricks on me.” He was trying so hard to rationalize this to himself, to talk himself off the ledge I had walked him so close to. But there was no going back now.

“But I’m right here” I whispered, my lips just brushing his ear. He jumped off the couch and into the middle of the leaving room, turning around again and again, his eyes darting in every direction. On the last turn, I let him catch a glimpse of me standing in the corner.

“Go away! Get away from me! Get out of my head!” he screamed. Bending at the waist and banging his fits against his head. He fell to his knees, bent over and pressed his forehead to the floor. Small sobs escaped past his lips. I bent down and copied the motion, but pressing my head into his. I wanted to share the last memories of my living life; I wanted him to know the pain.

I brought him back to three nights ago and replayed all the events that took place. Starting with the argument of where all the jewelry he’d given to me over the years came from. I let him experience the same gut wrenching feeling I had when I realized. When I knew who and what he was. He felt the terror I had, watching the realization on his face that I knew. The terror I felt when I realized I wasn’t going to walk away from this alive. I let it all pour into him. The rage, the pain, the shame. I let him watch as he grabbed me, as I fought him, as he wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed. I let him feel the burning of my lungs, the pain in my head, the horror that I hadn’t fought hard enough. I let him watch the ugly way his face contorted as he squeezed and squeezed. The way his brow sweat, his nose ran, and drool slipped past his lips from the effort it took to take my life. I let him watch all the way until the moment my heart stopped.

I sat up, ending the mirage of memories. Gideon was on the floor, sobbing. The intensity of my feelings and memories eating away at his composure.

“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.” He cried as he rocked back and forth, acting as if he was on some bad trip.

“Oh, but it was, it is. You killed me, Gideon. Just like all the others, you killed me.”

“But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to like I did with the others; I just had no choice.”

I already knew there was no reasoning with him. There was no use telling him there’s always a choice. Once he’s made up his mind, there are never any other options for him. I may not have known him as well as I thought I did, but I knew that.

He’s killed multiple women across the country for years. Almost everything he’s ever told me has been a lie. All the jewelry he’d given me from his travels, keep sakes from his victims. Trophies he got off on seeing me wear. He had given me a new necklace when he got to the cabin in the mountains. Shortly after I saw the story of the murder of a woman a couple counties over, wearing the same necklace. It was too ornate to be something so easily bought. Something in my gut told me to keep looking, so I did. Multiple women killed the same way, all of them had jewelry the exact same as something Gideon had given me. I felt my world come crashing down. I didn’t want to be right; I wanted there to be some explanation. I had hoped it was all a coincidence. Against my better judgment, I asked him about it. I should have known better. He tried to change the subject, to skirt around the questions I was asking. I knew then, and he knew it too. But I was going to be the last one.

He was still lying on the floor, in a fetal position repeating it wasn’t real. I wasn’t real. I couldn’t be here.

“Open your eyes, Gideon.” He looked right at him, tears still streaming down his face.

“Why are you here?” He asked. Like he might have finally accepted it was me. That this wasn’t some figment of his imagination.

“To make sure you can’t do this again. To make sure you can never hurt another woman again.” I told him, my voice cold.

“You were the last one, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again, I promise.” He looked hopeful, like he could talk his way out of this. Like he could lie his way out of this like he did with everything else.

He was right about one thing; I would be the last one. He would do it again. If he lived on, he would do it again, and again, and again. But I was going to make sure he couldn’t. I screamed. A loud, high pitch scream, like all the legends of banshees came true in that moment to lend me their powerful lungs. He was still kneeling on the floor, but was not clutching his ears, blood slipping from between his fingers. I stood in front of him, put my foot up and pushed him backward so he fell to his back. Kneeling beside him, I reached for his head. He looked on at me in terror, too stunned to attempt to fight me off. It wouldn’t matter if he did. Putting my hands to his temples, my fingers passing through his flesh, his skull and to his brain, I clawed. I wasn’t corporeal, but I could still manipulate the world around me, and manipulate I did. His nose started to bleed with the damage I inflicted, but he was still alive, but barely conscious. I ripped open his shirt and using my nails, carved “murderer” into his chest, along with every name of every woman I was able to link to him. I reached into his chest, palming his heart. I could feel the beat of it, his life literally in my hands. I tightened my grip, bit by bit, watching his face contort in pain. I watched as he silently begged me to stop, his words failing after the damage I had done. I watched and held on. Held on. Held on. Until his heartbeat got slower, slower, slower. Stopped. Until the light in his eyes was no more. Held on until his head didn’t just swim with the idea of death but met her.

He would never kill again. I would be the last death from his hands.