How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps)

by D. V. Bernard

  Yet, as the minutes passed, they felt the thing inside of them—the man’s curse or power, or whatever it was. And then they realized that they had all the man’s memories. They saw visions of all the horrible things he had done: the people he had hurt; the madness that had taken over his soul when he realized that he could kill with impunity. With all that power, he had spent most of his life as a modern day equivalent of a hobo.

  It was Vera who came up with the plan to bury the body. They were in a secluded spot anyway, and the soil was soft from a recent rain. Vera got the shovel from the man’s backpack. She dug the grave while Michelle lay on the ground, hugging herself. Vera did all the work, in fact. She rolled the body over to the hole and covered it over with dirt. She did not do a good job, because the man’s hand stuck out when she was finished. She had to re-dig the grave and stick the hand back in.

  And then, they went home. Vera helped Michelle hobble back to her home. There was a river along the way. Michelle stripped and washed herself, her movements slow and deliberate. She had a far-off expression on her face. At last, she looked up at Vera:

  “Do you feel him, too? Do you feel him inside of you?”

  Vera nodded anxiously. Actually, until then, neither of them had admitted to the other that she had the man inside of her. The man’s memories and actions had been like a kind of waking nightmare that they had kept to themselves—a disease they feared would spread.

  Michelle seemed calmer now—resolute. She got out of the river, but her clothes were useless now—mere rags. Vera gave Michelle her blouse and shirt—she had an undershirt and shorts underneath. They continued on to Michelle’s place. Michelle was not limping anymore. Her face was blank. There was no pain there anymore, but there was nothing else either, as though she had been hollowed out. Vera stared at her uneasily, but Michelle did not make eye contact with her.

  After about another five minutes of walking, they reached Michelle’s house—a dilapidated hovel hidden by some overgrown bushes. Michelle hugged Vera suddenly, then walked up the lane to the house. Vera stared at her until she disappeared into the house. She waited for another five minutes, to see if there would be yelling and crying, but there was nothing. Vera walked back home, disillusioned. It was getting dark, and with the man’s memories in her head, she was suddenly terrified. She began to run.

  When the hunting lodge came into view, she was relieved. She told herself that she had to go into the building as if nothing had happened. She stopped walking. She took deep breaths to calm herself. She realized that her parents would know something was wrong if they saw her in her undershirt and shorts, so she went around to the back and climbed into her bedroom window. It was on the ground floor. Once she was dressed, she walked back outside and entered the lodge.

  Her parents did not notice, and this amazed her. She had always thought that they knew everything—that they would always know, somehow, if she was in trouble or had done something wrong. When she entered the building, they were sitting at the kitchen table, worrying about how much longer it was going to take for the car parts to arrive. They bickered about such things, and Vera was relieved. She retreated into herself, but more and more, the memories of the man she had killed took possession of her mind. She felt the man’s memories expanding somehow, taking up space within her.

  She spent the next day inside. She told her parents that she was sick, and she was. They assumed it was “woman trouble.” She stayed in bed, shuddering at all the images. Her parents complained that the car parts still had not arrived: the parts dealer had promised that the parts would arrive a day ago, but nobody could find them. Her parents brought her food as she lay in bed; they gave her updates on the parts that had not come….

  The next day, Vera felt marginally better. She had gotten used to the rapist’s memories the way someone living in a sewer could get used to the stench. She was still being poisoned, but at least she was not coughing anymore. There were other rapes in the man’s memories; after a while, all the images joined into a swirling kaleidoscope of violence and death. The worst thing was seeing Michelle’s rape from the man’s perspective. She felt like she were raping her friend. She had to go to the bathroom to throw up. …Experiencing all the man’s motives and impulses was like being inside the mind of an animal—some kind of predator.

  Around midday, she began to wonder how Michelle was doing. She heard her parents walking back and forth in the adjoining room, complaining about the car parts. She told them that she was feeling better, and that she would take a walk to get some fresh air. Once she was outside the door, she was overcome by the sudden fear that there was another predator waiting in the woods—another beast of a man getting ready to pounce on her. She was about to turn back when Michelle popped out from behind a bush and waved to her. Vera ran up to her; Michelle pulled her into the woods:

  “How are you doing?” Michelle asked.

  “Me?” Vera said, surprised. “I was wondering about you. You’re the one who he…” She faltered. Michelle shook her head:

  “He’s inside both of us now.”

  Vera nodded.

  “It’s like he’s taking over.”

  “Yes,” Vera whispered. And then, looking up at Michelle sharply, “How do you think all this happened? How did he bring that deer back to life? How come all his thoughts are in our heads?”

  Michelle looked at her gravely: “…We have his power now.”

  “What power?”

  “We can do what he does: the thing with the deer.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Yesterday, my mother told me to kill a chicken for dinner. I killed it, but then it came back.”

  “It came back?” she said, lost.

  “I broke its neck. I grabbed it and twisted its neck, like I always do. But like a minute later it started fluttering.”

  Vera shuddered. “What did you do?”

  “I chopped its head off.”

  “It didn’t come back again?”

  “I don’t think so. I chopped it to pieces and threw it in the pot. That did the trick.”

  There was a morbid expression on her face; and for whatever reason, Vera smiled.

  Michelle looked over at her again, and smiled the same disturbingly beautiful smile. For a moment, Vera was desperate to believe that things would be okay—that if Michelle was still beautiful on the outside, then everything would go back to the way they used to be. However, she remembered what Michelle had said about the man’s power being passed on to them. Vera began:

  “What makes you think I have the power, too?”

  “I know,” she said simply. And then, changing the topic, “When are you leaving town?”

  “I don’t know. The next day or so—whenever the parts come for the car.”

  Michelle nodded her head, deep in thought. “I’m pregnant, you know.”

  “What!”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “Already? It’s only been two days.”

  “I know. I can sense the child—just like I can sense the man. I’m going to have a daughter. It’s like we’re already talking. I told her all about you. I’m going to call her Stacy.”

  Vera shook her head: “But it’s only been two days.”

  “I know it, Vera. I’m going to be a mother.”

  Vera began to cry again. She could not help it. Michelle smiled and hugged her. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be going home soon. You’re going to go back to your life. You’ll forget about this place—everything that happened.”

  Vera shook her head. “I’ll never forget this place. Never. I’ll never forget any of it.”

  “You have to forget, Vera. One of us has to forget. I saw it in his memories. When he kills them, they forget. He tells them what to remember, and they forget the rest.”

  Vera shook her head again, sensing something horrible.

  “One of us has to forget—no use in the both of us remembering.” She took a knife out of her pocket then. Vera took a step back, b
ut it was too late. The blade entered her cleanly; Michelle grabbed her before she fell, and cradled her to the ground, saying, “One of us has to forget…..” The last thing Vera saw was Michelle’s beautiful face….

  And now that the adult Vera knew the truth, her consciousness began to move back into the present. For an instant, she was again surrounded by darkness, but then the surrounding world began to brighten; and then, suddenly, she found herself back in her living room. Both she and Stacy were lying on the ground. Stacy was still dead, but Vera felt the power of life within herself now. She felt Stacy’s consciousness within her. Somehow, it seemed pure; she knew everything that Stacy had known and done. She saw how confused Stacy had been all her life. Stacy’s mother had transmitted all her memories to her, even before she was born. Vera remembered how Michelle had told her she was pregnant, only two days after conception. Most of the memories she had passed on had perhaps been muddled by Michelle’s slow descent into madness, but her friendship with Vera had probably been the one good thing she passed on to her daughter: the one memory that had filled her with joy and hope. That view of ideal friendship had been passed on to Stacy in the womb, so that when Stacy heard Vera on the radio that night after the weekend in Vermont, she had been almost genetically compelled to seek her out. It all made perfect sense to her now. The ability to hold life within herself had been transmitted to Stacy from her parents. Vera had had that ability all the time, but it had been dormant—short-circuited by whatever instructions Michelle had given her when she came back to life.

  Seeing all this now, Vera smiled and caressed Stacy’s face. Stacy looked so peaceful now—so childlike. And then, as if on cue, Stacy began to stir. Vera sat up straighter and looked down at Stacy as she opened her eyes. At first, Stacy looked up at her confusedly; Stacy opened her mouth, to ask Vera what had happened, but Vera put her finger over Stacy’s lips, shushing her.

  “Sit back and let me tell you a story, my friend,” Vera started with a smile. And then, as Stacy looked on with childlike wonder, Vera went on to tell her why they needed one another.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  BROOKLYN; FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2005; 14:22

  (The following is one of Stacy’s demented stories. I cut a couple of them in the final draft. The following was supposed to be the first story Stacy told, but when I was finished, I felt that it was so long that it was distracting to the overall plot. Now that you’re finished reading the novel, you can probably use all the distractions you can get. Remember that this is Stacy telling Vera a story.)

  DELETED SCENE

  “…So, one day a businesswoman is rushing back to work after lunch at a restaurant. Let’s call her Tina McKinney. She’s middle-aged and dressed in a business suit—your typical career businesswoman. Anyway, she runs into a friend of hers, whom she hasn’t seen in years. Let’s call her Shelley Halima. ‘Hey, Shelley!’ Tina says; she continues: ‘How have you been? I haven’t seen you since the divorce?’ As soon as she says it, she immediately regrets it, remembering the messy divorce her friend had had two years ago. Nevertheless, her friend smiles and hugs her, undisturbed. Tina is relieved. Figuring that her friend’s ease must be due to a new relationship, she ventures: ‘Seeing anyone new?’ Shelley shakes her head, still unconcerned, before revealing: ‘I haven’t had a man in two years, and I don’t need one.’

  “There was a tint of antagonism at the mention of men, and Tina was just beginning to think that her friend had switched teams and gone over to the rug-munching side, when Shelley announced, ‘I have Vincent now.’ ‘Vincent?’ Tina asked; and then: ‘Who is he?’ ‘Vincent isn’t a who, girl,” Shelley corrected her, “—he’s a godsend.’ And then, with a loud salesperson’s voice, she went on, ‘The Vincent 6000: ten inches of vibrating magnificence, always ready for my pleasure.’ Tina stared at her uneasily: ‘…A vibrator?’ she said, looking around, in case anyone had heard. ‘Damn right,’ Shelley said proudly. But Tina still had a frown on her face: ‘You’re saying you don’t need a man because you have a vibrator?’ ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Vincent is always hard; he doesn’t fall asleep on me—’ Tina interrupted her with, ‘Not unless the batteries run out.’ Shelley shook her head: ‘No, girl—Vincent runs off the energy of my body.’ ‘…It does what?’ ‘He runs off my juices, honey.’ …Tina’s frown deepened: ‘Your pussy juices?’ Shelley nodded her head in the same proud way: ‘Damn straight. …And get this: Vincent talks to me.’ ‘Your vibrator talks?’ ‘Yeah, he says the most wonderful things. It’s like he senses my moods. When I want to get raunchy, he says the nastiest things to me; when I want to be treated tenderly, he whispers the sweetest things.’ Tina was uncomfortable listening to all this; and suddenly realizing something about her friend, she said, ‘Do you realize that you’re calling your vibrator “he”?’ ‘What else would I call him?’ Shelley said as if there were some kind of bigotry behind Tina’s comment: as if she had just said that black people weren’t human beings, or that women were mentally inferior. Tina tried to reason with her friend, saying, ‘It’s a piece of plastic, Shelley.’ ‘—Not plastic,’ Shelley corrected her in her salesperson voice. ‘—Vincent is made of the most advanced, skin-like polyurethane known to science. He’s so incredible that I quit my job last month and became a Vincent salesman fulltime.’ Tina gasped. ‘You quit your job as a vice president at a Wall Street firm, so that you can sell vibrators?’ ‘I know how it sounds, but I’m telling you that Vincent is the answer to every woman’s prayers. I’m now making twenty thousand dollars a month!’ ‘From selling vibrators?’ ‘It’s a revolution in female sexuality,’ Shelley announced. ‘All my friends have gotten one; and once they get one, they recommend Vincent to their sisters and mothers and daughters.’ Some kind of morbid streak went through Tina, and she found herself asking, “…Have you gotten your mother one?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘But she’s eighty-five!’ Tina screeched, totally bewildered now. Shelley looked back at her calmly and countered: ‘Eighty-five-year-old pussies don’t need dick, too? Shit, girl, once I got her one, all the other women in her nursing home had to get one—and Medicaid covers it, too!’ ‘Goddamn!’ Tina said, stunned. Shelley continued: ‘I got my daughter one, too.’ ‘But she’s only twelve!’ Tina screeched again. ‘That’s the best time to get her one, so that she doesn’t become dependent on men for her sexual pleasure.’ Then, while Tina stood there swooning from the entire conversation, Shelley went on, ‘…So, how many should I put you down for?’ ‘Me?’ Tina said so forcefully that she almost choked. ‘S-sorry, sista,’ she stammered, ‘I only like flesh and blood in my pussy.’ Shelley groaned at her statement: ‘Don’t be so close-minded. …Let me tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you try Vincent free for one week.’ ‘…I don’t know,’ Tina said, feeling more uncomfortable by the second. ‘What is there to know?’ Shelley countered. ‘If Vincent isn’t everything I said he is, I’ll take him back, free of charge.’ When Shelley saw that her friend was still wary, she challenged her with, ‘Take charge of your sex life, Tina, instead of waiting around for some limp-dicked man.’ Before Tina could say anything, Shelley went on, ‘You still have the same address?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then I’ll have the warehouse send over a Vincent today. He should be waiting for you when you get home.’ Tina tried to make a final protest, but before she could say anything, Shelley looked at her watch and blurted out, ‘Look at the time! I gotta run! I’ll catch you later.’ She kissed Tina on the cheek and was gone before Tina’s brain could register anything but a mild case of shock.

  “Tina returned to the office. However, for the rest of the afternoon, all she could think about was the idea of a talking vibrator being sent to her home. Who the hell would want to talk to a vibrator? She didn’t even want to talk to her lovers during sex—much less a piece of plastic, or polyurethane, or whatever the hell it was! She had once had a lover who kept up a running commentary during sex: stuff like, ‘Is this the best dick you ever had?’ To which, she would be forced to respond, ‘Yes, ba
by!’ ‘You love this big dick?’ ‘Oh yes, baby!’ ‘You love this big dick deep inside of yuh?’ ‘Oh, yes, baby, yes!’ …Just the thought of it made her shudder. Even when she faked her orgasm it would spur him on to more questions. After a while she would expect him to start asking multiple-choice questions, like, ‘Is this (a) The best dick you’ve ever had, (b) The greatest dick in the history of the universe…’

  “When it was time for Tina to go home for the day, she felt an unsettled feeling in her gut. She kept hoping that maybe Shelley, as busy as she was, would forget about the entire thing. In truth, the entire conversation seemed like a bizarre dream to her. However, when she got home, the package was waiting on her front porch. Shit! Tina thought to herself, Shelley’s better than the freaking Post Office!