How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps)

by D. V. Bernard

  Suddenly desperate to get her bearings, she used all her strength and will to open her eyes. Unfortunately, everything was blurry: the world was a kaleidoscope of shadows and flashing lights. She groaned again, and then remembered everything: Stacy, the hysterical mother, the fight—

  “Ma’am!” the man called again. She forced herself to look up, and found herself staring up at a policeman. There were actually about four of them standing above her.

  Vera shuddered at the realization, and closed her eyes.

  “The ambulance is on its way—”

  Vera suddenly began to cough: some of the blood in her mouth had gone down her windpipe. …But she was beginning to regain consciousness: awareness of her predicament; and then, looking to the side, she saw the mother standing with some policemen, pointing frantically at her. Some of the people in the neighborhood were standing near the woman, corroborating her story with nods and gestures in Vera’s direction. Vera coughed again, and then sat up. She felt her head and face: everything was swollen—

  “They killed my son, I’m telling you!” the mother screamed then.

  Vera looked around, digesting more of her predicament. There were now dozens of onlookers on the street—witnesses. There were at least six police cruisers—

  “Make her confess!” the mother implored the policemen trying to keep her calm.

  “God!” Vera whispered to herself as the full extent of it hit her again.

  “Ma’am,” one of the policemen standing above her started now, “—we’re going to have to ask you some questions, if you’re up to it.”

  Vera looked up at him, nodded, and then bowed her head again. Somehow, keeping her head bowed kept the worst of the pain at bay.

  “That woman is making some wild accusations against you,” he started.

  “Like what?” she started cautiously: if she knew what the woman was saying, she would be able to lie better. The thought made her recoil: she was Dr. Vera, radio talk show host, not some street criminal!

  “Let me have your side of the story first,” the policeman outwitted her. “You can start by telling us your name.”

  Vera felt a quake of panic go through her. She felt everything that she had—all that she had strived for—coming undone. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing. “It’s all a misunderstanding,” she pleaded with the police officers. “She attacked us!” she said, pointing in the direction of the mother. Thankfully, at that moment, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics rushed out to treat Vera.

  The mother complained: “Why are you pampering her! She killed my son!” Some of the mother’s supporters were grumbling in agreement. The police officers began to tell them to disperse.

  Vera felt sick and groggy again. The paramedics put her on a gurney, and soon had her in the back of the ambulance. They asked her a series of medical questions; they shone a light into her eyes, checking for a concussion. Vera’s mind abandoned her. It was like a car that refused to start. She was stranded in the middle of nowhere—doomed.

  According to the paramedic, she was fine: she had a mild concussion from the fight, and some contusions, but she was otherwise fine. She was just beginning to feel better when a police officer appeared at the back door of the ambulance:

  “Ma’am, at this time, we’re going to take you into custody…” He began to read Vera her Miranda Rights. She was handcuffed. She stared ahead in a daze. Somehow, she was transferred to the back of a police cruiser. She sat there in shock as she was driven to the police station.

  The police car had its sirens on, but the sound seemed off somehow, as if she were hearing it from underneath the water. The car was speeding down the Brooklyn streets, but she felt as though time had stopped and they were all frozen in place. She kept telling herself that if she did nothing—if she refused to believe that this was real—then everything would take care of itself. All she had to do was sit back and let the universe correct itself. This was only another aberration in reality, to be overcome by some self-correcting mechanism that was beyond her. Even when she ceased believing in a self-correcting universe, she trusted in Stacy. Stacy was out there somewhere, taking care of everything. Stacy had showed her how this was a world were death was irrelevant, so taking care of this would only be like child’s play to her. She refused to think about consequences. She refused to think about what would happen if this got on the news. She retreated into the numbness and felt safe.

  The car stopped in front of the police precinct. They had actually driven in a convoy. Another police cruiser was there with the mother. A police officer opened the back door and shepherded Vera inside of the building. The mother began to scream her accusations once again, but Vera allowed the words to wash over her—to bypass her consciousness. Her ability to do this startled her, like a newfound superpower. The inside of the police precinct was drab and dark. She was led into a room with several desks—a booking department—where detectives filled out the paperwork that began people’s descent into the Criminal Justice system. There were only about three detectives on duty, whereas there were about ten people waiting to be booked. The police officer led her to the side of the room and sat her down. She was handcuffed to the chair. Others were sitting in that area, chained to their chairs. All were huge, thuggish-looking men. The man next to her kept mumbling about how he was going to kick somebody’s ass. He did not say who this someone was, but he kept mumbling it to himself, as if it reassured him. Once again, Vera closed her mind to everything that was happening. She allowed time and the events of the outside world to bypass her awareness, and again found a strange kind of peace.

  Eventually, a middle-aged detective came up and started to talk to her. He looked like a stereotypical police detective: bad suit, late thirties, slightly overweight…but his face was kind. He asked her something about if she wanted a lawyer or not. She may have shaken her head—she was not quite sure. The next thing she knew, the man was walking her down a corridor and into an interrogation room.

  It was only when Vera was seated in front of the man that her situation began to filter through the numbness. Had she really seen the boyfriend come back to life? What if it had all been some kind of elaborate hoax? What if Stacy had framed her somehow? Her mind tried to go down that path for a while, but she did not have the energy required.

  “You need some ice or something for your face?”

  Vera stared at the detective for a moment before she realized that he had said something. “What?” she said.

  “Your face: you need something?”

  Vera touched her face. She realized that the handcuffs had been taken off, but she had no idea when. Her face felt doughy. Thankfully, it was numb like the rest of her. “I’m okay.”

  “Okay.” He sighed at last. “Let’s get started then.” There were some forms in front of him. He took out his pen. “Please state your name.”

  Vera knew that this was the moment of no return. “…Vera Alexander,” she whispered.

  The man stared at her for a while, and then frowned: “Dr. Vera?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The Dr. Vera?” he said excitedly. “I listen to your show all the time!”

  Vera bowed her head. She had nothing to say.

  “What the hell is the story here?” he said more casually, as if he and Vera were old friends—as if the time he spent listening to her during his daily commute had forged some kind of deep relationship. He gestured at the door then: “The woman outside is making some wild accusations about you.”

  “It’s all a misunderstanding,” Vera said.

  “Okay,” he replied, as if desperate to believe. “Tell me your side of the story.”

  Vera took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “My friend, Stacy, and I were driving along, and then all of a sudden her boyfriend’s mother started screaming that we were murderers.”

  “She screamed at you while you were driving?”

  “No, we had stopped on the side of the street.”

  “Why
had you stopped?”

  “We were checking something in the back of the van. I had left my bag in there.” She remembered the ice cream—“I had left some ice cream back there, and we were going to eat it before it melted.” After she said it, she realized how stupid it sounded.

  The detective seemed unconvinced as well: “You were so desperate for ice cream that you stopped on the side of the road?”

  “It was chocolate,” she said. To her amazement, she smiled, and the detective smiled as well.

  “Why were you and your friend in that neighborhood?”

  “My friend Stacy lives a few blocks from where we stopped.”

  “Where were you headed?”

  “We were just driving around.”

  He looked at her dubiously again: “You seem kind of old to be out cruising on a Friday night.”

  “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” she said, amazing herself once again. The detective looked at her curiously, as if intrigued. And then:

  “Why was there a body in the van?”

  Vera sensed the trap; she forced herself not to speak for a second. She took a deep breath before saying, “There was no body.”

  “Then why did your friend take off when the old lady started screaming?”

  “She had stormed into Stacy’s place earlier—we thought she was dangerous.”

  “Then why did your friend leave you with this supposedly ‘dangerous’ woman. It doesn’t sound like this Stacy woman is good a friend; and again, the old lady outside is saying some crazy stuff about her.”

  “I told Stacy to go—I didn’t want her to get hurt. …I told her I’d hold the attacker off.”

  “You’re a pretty good friend.”

  “I try to be—to people who treat me well.”

  “How does she treat you well?”

  She thought about it objectively with her head bowed. And then, looking up: “She tells me the truth. She tells me things as they are.” She did not know if that was true or not, but she wanted it to be the truth. It was like a religious statement: a declaration of faith in something that she had no way of verifying.

  “How long have you two been friends?”

  “A while now.”

  “How long is ‘a while’?”

  “Some weeks…months,” she lied.

  “Hmm,” he mused, “can you tell me what her last name is?”

  Vera could only stare at him. Of course, she had no idea what Stacy’s last name was. She opened her mouth, fumbling with words that refused to come. Mercifully, that was when an officer burst into the room:

  “They’re here, Jon!”

  “What?”

  “The woman and the guy—the one the mother said was murdered.”

  “He’s alive?” the detective asked.

  “Alive and well.”

  Vera sighed in relief. “See,” she said with a smile, “I told you this was all a misunderstanding.”

  The detective looked at her as if just noticing her; he looked back at the officer: “You say they’re both here.”

  “Yeah, right outside. You may as well come out.”

  The detective stood up, nodding to Vera, so that she would come with him. They walked down the same corridor, and then they were in the main area again. When they got there they saw Stacy and the boyfriend standing with a bunch of officers. Just then, the mother, who had been in another interrogation room, burst out. Seeing her son, she screamed!

  “How is it possible?” the woman said in disbelief.

  The boyfriend smiled and began to walk toward her; she ran up to him and leapt at him, hugging him. “You causing trouble again, Ma?” he said with a chuckle.

  Vera stared at the scene. Seeing the boyfriend alert (and clothed) was surreal. She glanced at Stacy, who winked and smiled at her. Vera walked over and stood by Stacy.

  The mother was bawling now; the son patted her back. “It’s okay, Ma. I told you not to worry so much. I’m fine.”

  The mother detached herself from him a little bit and stared at him: “…But I saw them killing you. You were lying in the back of the van, and—”

  “Ma,” he said in a mock stern tone, “you see me standing right here, don’t you? Obviously I’m not dead.”

  “But why were you lying naked in that van. I saw you,” she said again.

  “I wasn’t, Ma. Stacy just picked me up from the corner bar.”

  The old woman looked distraught: “Your old mother must be losing her mind.”

  The boyfriend held her again. “You’re fine, Ma. It’s just a hot night out there, that’s all.”

  She detached herself from him again: “Why did you say those horrible things to your old mother on the phone?” she demanded now.

  “What things?”

  “When I called you on the phone, you said I was dead—that I had been killed and eaten when you were five. Why would you say such a horrible thing!”

  “I never said anything like that, Ma. You probably called the wrong number. Haven’t I always treated you right, Ma?” he said, as if hurt by the accusation.

  “Oh, you’re right!” she said, desperate to believe. “It must have all been a mix-up somewhere—some cruel boy playing a trick on your old mother. Give your mother a hug,” she said then, even though they were still holding one another. “You love your old mother, don’t you?” she pressed him.

  “You know you’re my main girl.”

  While the two stood hugging and rocking one another, Stacy groaned under her breath. And then, bending over to Vera, “See what I told you: the two of them are sickening when they get together.”

  Vera smiled.

  “Oh, Sweetiekins,” the mother went on, “take your old mother back to her hotel.”

  “Anything for you, Ma,” he reassured her. They began to walk off arm in arm, like two content lovers.

  “Jesus!” Stacy whispered to Vera. “You can’t tell me he wasn’t better off the other way.”

  Vera smiled again—mostly because the scene put an end to her prison nightmare. However, responding to Stacy’s comment, she mused, “People have to be free to be morons. You can’t cheat them out of their right to do stupid things.”

  “I suppose,” Stacy said with a playful, pouty expression—like a mischievous child being reprimanded by a parent. And then, as she watched the couple make their way to the exit: “I still can’t believe you let that old bitch knock you out!” There was a smile on her face.

  Vera cringed and looked up at her uneasily: “You found out?” she whispered.

  “When I drove back to the neighborhood, everyone was still talking about it.”

  “The old lady has a vicious left hook,” Vera said with a shrug, and they both laughed.

  The mother and son were at the door now. The detective who had interrogated Vera came over to her: “Sorry about all this—but we had to investigate what the old lady was saying.”

  “I understand how it is,” Vera said with a smile. “No hard feelings.” She saw again that he had a kind face, and nodded. At that, she began to walk off with Stacy. When they got outside, the mother and son were getting into a cab.

  Vera wanted to go home and collapse onto her bed. “Can you drive me home?” she asked Stacy.

  “I don’t think you should be alone right now,” Stacy advised her. “Why don’t you come home with me as we had planned before? My boyfriend will spend the night with his mother, and I don’t want to be alone either.”

  “I need to be alone—to think.”

  “Thinking by yourself is like drinking by yourself: no good can come of it. Spend the night over at my place—I have a bedroom set up for you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What is there to know? Tonight, of all nights, isn’t it clear that we need one another? Haven’t the last few hours shown that?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be needed right now.”

  “That’s the thing about needs—when you see them for what they are, it doesn’t matter what you w
ant. I need you, Vera…and you need me.”

  The prospect of entering into that conversation again was draining. Vera sighed: “…I feel so tired all of a sudden.”

  “Seeing the truth is exhausting.”

  The expression on Stacy’s face made Vera smile; Stacy held Vera’s upper arm again, but it was more like a plaintive caress this time. Vera smiled and shrugged at last, saying: “…Okay, I guess I can spend the night.”

  They drove along in silence for a while. Eventually, Stacy turned to Vera when they were waiting at another red light: “Did you doubt me?”

  “What?”

  “When you were in the police station, did you think I wasn’t going to come back?”

  “A little.”

  About thirty seconds passed before Stacy said, “Doubt is the beginning of all unhappiness.” Stacy’s tone was that of a hurt woman, and despite Vera’s ordeal of the past two hours, she felt guilty. She was desperate to say something to make amends, but Stacy spoke up then, saying,

  “Are you still tired?”

  “So much has happened tonight. I don’t think I can sleep, but I’m tired—drained.”

  “You’re still trying to make sense of all this,” Stacy said in a way that made the words came out as an accusation.

  Vera looked up at her: “You think trying to make sense of things is bad?”

  “‘Making sense’ is people’s way of making things more complicated than they need to be. It’s like sex: if you sit down and try to intellectualize it, and figure out why you like it, you won’t enjoy it. The best sex is mindless sex—thoughtless sex. It feels good and you do it. End of story.”

  “Reasoning like that can only lead to disaster,” Vera countered.

  “All things end badly, Vera,” Stacy said, glancing over at her as she drove down the street. “Even life ends in death. The trick is to enjoy the ride before everything goes to hell.”