How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps)

by D. V. Bernard

  “War is different. That’s self-defense.”

  “Exactly. Your response proves my point: need trumps morality every time. When you see there is a need to defend yourself, then prohibitions against murder disappear—morality disappears. In fact, words like ‘morality’ and ‘sacred’ have no substance. They’re meaningless. People use them when they want to put on airs—when they want to pretend that their needs are somehow sanctioned by God or whatever other supernatural force they claim to believe in. They pretend to be up in the heavens, when inside they’re crawling in the gutters with the rest of us.”

  Vera sighed. “How did we get into all this?”

  Stacy smiled at her. “Don’t pretend that you don’t like our conversations, Vera. Even now, what worries you is that you agree with me.”

  “I do not!” she said, but she was laughing.

  “You do. Admit it. You know the truth of what I’m saying—it’s just unpalatable, since you like putting on airs.”

  Vera laughed out. “Yeah, I’ve got to set a moral example for all my fans.”

  They spent the rest of the evening watching television. Vera started to cook some chicken (which had to be chiseled from a block of ice in her freezer, and which had an unsavory scent, even when frozen). The intricacies of defrosting meat had never been one of her fortés, and so, thirty minutes later—when the stench of burning, unsavory meat wafted through the apartment—Stacy agreed that they should order out. They ordered from an Indian restaurant—something that had the veneer of being healthy, but which left them both with heartburn. Even then, it was good to lounge on the couch, vegetating. Vera realized that it had been a while since she had relaxed so completely. Every weekend she would promise herself that she would relax, but something would always come up—some celebrity event that her agent had booked her on at the last moment, or some other event that was supposed to be fun, but which ended up being tedious.

  They watched cartoons and science fiction movies that were so bad that she and Stacy spent half the time laughing. There was something wondrous about the confluence of bad plots, bad acting and bad special effects—especially when you wanted to vegetate.

  For dinner, they ordered from a deli. They watched more television while they ate. Around eleven-thirty that night, Stacy decided to go to bed. She said that she was rarely that tired so early in the night. Vera laughed and said that doing nothing was exhausting work.

  By midnight, the house was dark and still. Vera fell asleep on the couch. However, around three in the morning, she was awakened by a squeaking noise. It was sudden and violent. She sprung up from sleep and looked around confusedly. She heard the noise again, then remembered the French doors in the bedroom, which led out to the balcony. She was always meaning to oil the hinges, but had never gotten around to it. Anyway, figuring that Stacy had gotten up to get some fresh air, Vera walked over to the bedroom. The door was open, as were the French doors. The bed was of course empty.

  “Stacy?” Vera called, walking out to the balcony. She yawned then, but when she finally saw Stacy, she gasped. There was a lounge chair against the railing. Stacy had one foot on the lounge chair and the other on the railing—and seemed to be about to step out into the darkness. Vera sprang at her and pulled her back from the railing. “Stacy!” Vera screamed, but when she looked at Stacy’s face, there was a blank, non-responsive expression there. Her eyes were staring into space. Was she sleepwalking? Vera stared at her for a while, trying to figure it out, but then she just decided to return Stacy to bed. Stacy went compliantly; and then, when she was under the covers, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep. Vera stood staring at her, trembling slightly, thinking that if she had come just three seconds later, Stacy might have jumped ten stories to her death. Vera’s mind worked slowly, but once it got on its path, it worked steadily. In a sense, she had to wake up first, before she could think. All at once, she remembered the wrist-cutting incident. Stacy had been asleep then as well. What if something happened to Stacy when she slept? What if some latent suicidal impulse took over her when she closed her eyes? Up until now, Vera had thought that the boyfriend had had another psychotic episode and slit Stacy’s wrists; but in light of what she had just seen, everything pointed to Stacy.

  Even if there were some other explanation, one thing was certain: she had to stay awake to keep an eye on Stacy. She went to the kitchen and put on some coffee. She returned to the bedroom while the coffee was brewing, just to look at Stacy and make sure that she was okay. Vera got a chair from the dinette, placed it against the French doors (which she closed). Then, she sat on it, drinking her coffee and staring at Stacy. Unfortunately, some time after 4 a.m., she fell asleep.

  In the morning, she awoke to the sensation of being shaken. As she awoke, she remembered Stacy, and realized that the shaking sensation was like being throttled. She screamed out as she opened her eyes. The room was bright, and she squinted from the glare. She went to run—to scurry away—but only fell off the chair. She cringed on the ground, seeing Stacy towering above her. For a moment she held her breath, waiting to be attacked. However, Stacy laughed at her.

  “What’s your problem? Did you sleep on that chair last night?”

  Vera stared at her until her eyes adjusted to the light. She groaned and sat up. It was about 7 a.m. She remembered everything that had happened last night: Stacy getting ready to leap over the railing. She grimaced.

  “What’s wrong?” Stacy asked, her face showing concern.

  “You tried to kill yourself last night—that’s what’s wrong!”

  “What?”

  “You almost leapt off the balcony. I pulled you back just as you were about to jump. I guess you were sleepwalking or something. …I had to watch you all night.”

  Stacy frowned. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious!” Vera said, trembling with emotion. “…Don’t you see—something takes over you when you sleep. It wasn’t your boyfriend who slit your wrists: it was you. You did it while you were sleeping.”

  Stacy was still staring at her uncomprehendingly.

  “God, Stacy,” Vera went on. She got up from the floor and clutched Stacy by the shoulders, staring up into her eyes: “Something’s happening to you. When you sleep, something takes over.”

  “Something like what?”

  “Something unresolved that’s coming to the surface, perhaps.”

  Stacy frowned. “You think I’m unconsciously suicidal?”

  “I don’t know,” Vera said in frustration, wary of being lured into a debate. Presently, something occurred to her: “Remember what you told me about your mom? …How they’d find her wandering in the middle of nowhere. Didn’t you say she killed herself?”

  Stacy nodded uneasily.

  Vera grimaced as she saw the full picture in her mind—all the creepy possibilities. “I can’t leave you alone,” Vera went on. “Someone will have to watch you.”

  “I’m not a baby, Vera,” Stacy protested.

  Vera was still clutching her shoulders. “I brought you here so that you could get better, Stacy. Let me help you.”

  “So, now you think I’m crazy?”

  “Something’s going on, Stacy!” she said too loudly. “…Look at your wrists,” she said, gesturing to the bandages. “And if I had come into the room just a few seconds later last night, you would have jumped off the balcony. You’d be dead now.”

  “Why don’t I remember anything?”

  “You did everything in your sleep.”

  Stacy sighed, sounding unconvinced. “Why would I do all these things?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe you should talk to someone.”

  Stacy smiled. “You want to be my therapist?”

  Vera smiled, but shook her head. “No. I’m too close to you. I’ve done too much with you to be objective. …I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I told you before that everything has consequences. You tell yourself that you can kill your boyfriend without conseq
uences, but maybe your mind can’t handle it. Maybe your psyche—”

  Stacy’s face soured. “Don’t start that psychobabble. If you want to keep an eye on me then suit yourself. …I have to use the bathroom,” she said, walking off. Vera stared at her retreating back; as she did so, the same creepy feeling came over her, assuring her that something was very wrong.

  Vera called the boyfriend while Stacy was in the bathroom. When Stacy came out, Vera was making more coffee. Vera went to her.

  “How are your wrists?”

  “Fine.”

  “Let’s change your bandages.”

  “Okay.”

  Vera went to get the supplies, then she returned. Stacy still seemed withdrawn. Vera took her over to the kitchen sink, washed her hands, then began to unwrap one of the bandages. She looked up at Stacy’s forlorn face and sighed.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Stacy.”

  “I’m not angry,” she said, staring ahead blankly.

  “You’re annoyed with me then?” she pressed her.

  Stacy looked over at her, life finally seeming to enter her eyes. “You think I’m crazy,” she said, hurt.

  “The mind can only take so much, Stacy,” Vera explained. “…Just give yourself some time to relax and think things through.”

  Stacy said nothing. She stared down at the bandages.

  After the uncomfortable silence, Vera continued, “I called your boyfriend.”

  “Now you’re abandoning me?” Stacy said, but there was a sarcastic expression on her face.

  For whatever reason, Vera was relieved by this. She smiled. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t be left alone. Someone has to take care of you while I go to work.”

  “I thought you didn’t go to work until the evening?”

  Vera smiled, remembering that Stacy had stalked her. “That’s true, but we have to make arrangements. Besides, your boyfriend is desperate to see you.”

  “Okay,” Stacy said noncommittally.

  “He said he’d come over to bring you something to wear. I told him you’d go to the hospital with him. He’d be able to check up on his mother and you’d be able to have your wounds checked out.”

  “Okay,” Stacy said again.

  Vera groaned at Stacy’s detachment. “What do you want, Stacy? What do you expect me to do? You expect me to leave you here by yourself, after all I’ve seen?”

  “I want you to believe in me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Your ego is so big that you can’t believe that you sleepwalk? Your ego is so big that you can’t allow yourself to believe that a side of you might be operating subconsciously?”

  “I don’t believe in subconsciousness,” Stacy scoffed.

  Vera laughed. “That’s the thing about the mind: it does not care what you believe.”

  The boyfriend arrived about an hour later. Vera and Stacy were watching one of those morning talk shows. Despite what Stacy had said before, she seemed genuinely happy to see him. They hugged and kissed, and Stacy’s face brightened as she held him. Vera watched them and smiled. Stacy changed into the clothes the boyfriend had brought for her, right there in the living room. She was totally uninhibited; she did it in a way that seemed natural somehow. Soon, Stacy and the boyfriend were at the door, waving goodbye.

  “Stop by our place after work,” Stacy said over her shoulder. “You have the keys, remember?”

  “I will,” Vera said; and then, they were gone, and she was standing there alone. As always, her dealings with Stacy seemed like a dream in retrospect. She sighed, feeling exhausted. She returned to the couch and lay down. Five minutes later, she was fast asleep. She dreamed strange dreams, full of revelations that she forgot the moment she awoke. When she did so, she looked around groggily, with a vague feeling of panic—and frustration at the fact that she could not remember what she had dreamed. On the TV, the blaring theme music for the nightly network news was playing. She could not believe that she had slept all day. It was getting dark outside. She checked the wall clock for confirmation: it was six-thirty. She sat up on the couch, allowing her feet to drop to the floor. She had to be at work in an hour and a half. She usually got together with her producers to see what the day’s show was going to be about. She remembered Stacy, realizing that she should call and get an update. …But she could do that when she was in the cab, driving to work. She remembered the detective, and all the things they had done Saturday night. She smiled, feeling suddenly aroused. …But that would have to wait until another time. She got up from the couch now, and called the cab company. When that was completed, she went to the bathroom to shower.

  Forty-five minutes later, when the cab was driving over the Brooklyn Bridge, she got out her cell phone and dialed the detective. “What’s up, Holmes?”

  “What’s new?” he said sleepily.

  “I’m heading to work. …Did I wake you up?”

  “Of course. You know I work nights.”

  “I forgot.”

  He laughed. “I’ll forgive you this one time.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. The thing with Stacy sort of took all my energy.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fine. She’s back home now.”

  “With the boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I got the sense that you thought he might have had something to do with her slit wrists.”

  She paused. “…I did, but I think things will be all right. They need one another—Stacy and her boyfriend.”

  “They need one another?” he said confusedly.

  “Yeah. They’ll be fine because they need one another.”

  He did not exactly follow, but he said, “Okay.” He still sounded drowsy.

  “Go back to sleep, Holmes,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She ended the call, then dialed Stacy’s number. There was no answer. The answering machine came on after five rings. She hated answering machines. She always felt on the spot—that if she said something stupid it would be on record for eternity. “—Hi, Stacy. It’s me, Vera. …I wanted to see how you were doing. I’ll call you later. You can call me on my cell—leave me a message, so that I know you’re fine.”

  After she had disconnected the call, she sat back in the cab. She looked out of the window distractedly—at the speeding traffic on the FDR Drive. …She could not get over the uneasy feeling she had, but forced herself not to jump to conclusions. She told herself that Stacy and her boyfriend were probably out having one of their trademark bizarre adventures. Unfortunately, after the weekend she had had, that thought was not exactly a comforting one. She tried not to think about it.

  She realized, all at once, that she missed Stacy. She missed their disturbing conversations; as she drove to work, she found herself longing for one of Stacy’s perverted stories. She smiled vaguely at the image of Quartay screaming out at the sight of his possessed penis. …But then she sighed. The prospect of work was particularly distasteful today. After her weekend with Stacy, she felt somehow as though she had been away for weeks. She had the kind of post-vacation melancholia that made people yearn for the beaches and secluded places they had just returned from. Today, of all days, she knew that her time as Dr. Vera was coming to an end. One way or another, she would have to move on. She knew this. …And she had some money in the bank. Maybe it was time to do something for herself—take a trip around the world; write a book that actually mattered…The world was full of possibilities, and she was suddenly eager to grasp them. A strange fear of failure had kept her trapped in the entire Dr. Vera persona. She did not want to be afraid anymore. She wanted to live fearlessly. Stacy had shown her that. Stacy was at the vanguard of something—Vera was certain of it. Maybe none of them could or should live like Stacy, but Stacy was alive and free, whereas most people became passive victims of their lives. Vera would change her life. She would change who she was and claim back the reins of her life. She s
wore this as she sat in the back of the cab.

  Once she got to work, she fidgeted through her production meeting, waiting for it to be over. Her producers and some interns spent an hour and a half pitching show ideas and talking about things in the news that they might bring up in the show. All the ideas seemed stupid and overdone to Vera, but she nodded her head, if only so that they would stop asking her what she thought. Tonight, a doctor was going to be on to talk about the male contraceptive pill, and the producers were telling her to ask questions about the social and sexual implications of men being in control of contraception. One intern—a woman right out of college—was vehement that no woman was going to trust a man with contraception. Vera allowed her mind to tune it all out.

  After the meeting, she called Stacy, but there was again no response. To distract herself, she went and got something to eat. She still had over an hour until the show started. She wanted to call the detective, but feared that he was still sleeping. Instead, she went to her office and took a nap. She was awakened by the chime of her cell phone. When it occurred to her that Stacy might be calling, she answered it eagerly:

  “Stacy?”

  “No,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “It’s Mandy.”

  “Mandy?” Vera said, confused.

  “Mandy West—your agent.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling silly. She glanced at the wall clock in her office—she had fifteen minutes until the show.

  “Are you feeling okay?” her agent asked her.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry—I was napping.”

  “Okay. Anyway, I’m calling to book you on a talk show. It’s a show on why men can’t please women sexually. You’ll defend the ‘female’ position and they’ll have another psychologist—a man—to defend the ‘male’ position.”

  Vera groaned. “Those ‘battle of the sexes’ debates are pointless, Mandy.”

  “Of course they are—but they help sell books and attract listeners.”

  Something about Mandy’s statement was sickening—soulless. Vera paused for a moment, thinking about it. “What do you care about, Mandy?”