Then there was nothing. No white light. No singing choir. Nothing! I’m not sure what pissed me off more—the fact that the man I loved had just stabbed me for no apparent reason or that there was nothing at the end of the line.
I don’t know how long I lay in a puddle of my own blood in the parking area, but I woke in the cubicle, where I started. I checked my chest. There was no blood and no stab wound. It was as though it had all been a dream. But it hadn’t been a dream. It had been too real. I touched my cheeks and felt they were wet with tears. I hadn’t even realised that I’d been crying, but at least I felt real to my own touch.
A bald man with a goatee came into my cubicle and gestured for me to follow him. He didn’t say a word as he led me towards the exit. He made no offer to explain what I’d just experienced.
“What happened to me?” I asked, as I grabbed his arm. I needed an explanation. I had to have one.
“You died,” he said, without any emotion or sympathy. “Everyone’s experience is different, but what you felt and saw is what will come to pass. What you do now, is up to you.”
“That’s not possible. What I experienced isn’t possible. There’s no way that’s going to happen.”
He simply shrugged and led me out into the bright daylight. The redhead from the queue looked lost and confused. Her eyes were red and puffy. Tears ran down her pink cheeks.
David walked up to me and put his arms around me. He smiled.
“That was amazing. I’ve never felt more peaceful than I do right now. How about you?”
“I’m not sure how I feel right now. I just want to go home. Can we please go home now?” I fought for control of the hysteria welling up inside me. It wasn’t possible.
We walked to the car in silence. David held my hand and smiled. I didn’t understand how he could be so happy about his death.
“What did you see?” My voice caught in my throat.
“I was an old man and died happily in my bed with Jess sitting at my side, holding my hand.” He sounded so happy when he said that, so bloody peaceful.
“Your wife? Jess?” I couldn’t believe it. His promise earlier had been a lie. Everything between us had been a lie. Shock clenched my stomach and then his feet moved.
“Yes. My wife.” He punched me in the gut. My senses reeled as my burning stomach muscles clenched and nausea welled up. All the air rushed from my lungs and I fell to my knees in front of him. Small, sharp stones cut into the thin layer of skin covering my knees. I didn’t see from where he produced the knife. The memory of how the ride predicted my death slammed into me.
And happen it did, just the way it had a short while ago. The knife was thrust deep into my chest before I could ask why. My ribs were torn apart by the blade, sending hot flashes of fresh pain to my brain. I struggled for air like a goldfish out of water. His eyes held the same coldness I’d seen in them before. I didn’t understand. How could the man I love and gave myself to—so completely—kill me, without the slightest show of emotion?
I waited for the nothingness to come, but it didn’t. I lay there in my puddle of blood, looking up at him, watching him wipe the blade of his knife on my dress. I kept hoping for that nothingness but it never came. Instead I was a prisoner in my own body as he loaded me into the boot of his car.
The car stopped about an hour later. We’d been driving on a dirt road for the past ten minutes. My corpse bounced around a bit. If I’d been alive to feel it, my teeth would have rattled rather badly, but being dead does have its advantages. I felt nothing. The pain was gone, only numbness prevailed.
I got a glimpse of sunlight as he opened the boot. He bent over me and took out a shovel. His feet crunched leaves and he grunted as he dug my grave. It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. He smiled as he hauled me out of the car and carried me to the open hole in the ground. A beautiful willow tree provided shade. The wind rustled the leaves above us. I landed in the grave with a thud, on top of another girl. She was a brunette. She must have been pretty, but time in our grave had been unkind to her. I stared into her empty eye-sockets, hoping for some glimmer or sign that she was like me, trapped. Then she smiled. Her lips were shrivelled and decaying. Her teeth, while still white, wobbled in her receding gums. I wanted to scream but no sound came out.
Sunlight was replaced by darkness and still the nothingness eluded me. I longed for a true death. I wanted the type of death I’d been promised since childhood; the one that included a heaven with choirs of angels. Was this my own personal hell? Was this my punishment for being a bad girl? Or was it an after effect of the Death Express? I had a feeling I would have an eternity to figure it out. What I knew for sure was that David would be back to visit us soon. He would be bringing another tenant to share the grave.
Death of a Parrot
I read somewhere that a sure way to kill a Parrot is to feed it avocado. I wondered if it would work on Pierre’s African Grey. I really hated that bird. All our problems started the day he bought it.
Before that day we were happy. Sure we had problems, but all couples do. We even talked about getting married. After living together for a year we decided that we could make it work. We could have the white picket fence and the happily ever after that young couples dream about having. Then he went and ruined it.
He called me up that morning and said he had a surprise for me. There I was, mistakenly thinking that it would be something in the line of jewellery; something with a diamond, something that would fit perfectly on my ring finger. It wasn’t an unreasonable hope. As I said, we’d discussed it.
But instead of a ring, I got a parrot. Let me just mention that I’m not an animal lover. My parents had tried to install affection for animals in me, but for some or other reason the love of animals just never took.
He didn’t bother to ask if I wanted a pet. If he had asked, the answer would definitely have been no. Which is probably why he didn't.
If he wanted a pet so badly, why did he have to get a parrot? Why not a cute kitten or a puppy? You can’t take a parrot for a walk, it doesn’t curl up on your lap and there’s no way it can protect you from a burglar. So what’s the point?
All it does is squawk and leave a stinky mess at the bottom of its cage. Who do you think ends up cleaning the cage? Not Pierre, that’s for sure. Cleaning up after his bird would be too much like taking responsibility for his purchase. His excuse was that she was a present for me so therefore it was my job to clean up after it.
When we moved in together we had specific roles in our relationship, he was the responsible one and I was the flake. It worked well. Then he bought the parrot and our roles got all confused.
Having a parrot is as bad as having a fish. I should know, my parents insisted on buying me a fish as a pet. I never did manage to keep a fish alive for very long. It always ended badly. My father would give a brief speech about what a good fish “Goggles” was. I always named the doomed fish “Goggles”. That way I didn't have to worry about remembering which name to use during my father’s ceremony.
After the speech he would flush poor unfortunate Goggles down the toilet. We tried burying them for a short while, but my mother’s cat would dig the freshly buried fish up and eat it on mother’s clean white bedding. So my father decided that flushing was a lot safer for all concerned, especially the cat.
Pierre called the bloody parrot Polly. He thought it was amusing. I didn’t. And to add injury to insult he taught her how to say “Polly wants a cracker!” That did it. She had to go. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. I was getting rid of her. Polly was leaving the building.
The problem was how to get rid of her without having to worry about Pierre’s reaction? I knew that with time he’d get over it. But that would take time and I didn’t want him to hate me because of a parrot. I still wanted to ride off into the sunset with him. Then there was the little problem of preventing him from getting another pet.
There were a few options open to me. I could open the cage and
the stupid thing could fly away, never to be seen or heard from again. I could take her back to the pet shop where he bought her. Or I could wring her neck and roast her in the oven in a nice white wine sauce and feed her to him.
The last thought put a smile on my face.
But wringing her neck could cause a few problems. There was physical strength that needed to be factored into the equation. Did I have the strength to pull it off and then there’s the luck factor that needs to be kept in mind.
Knowing my luck, while I was trying to kill the damn thing, she would get away from me and I’d end up chasing her around the house. Pierre would show up just in time to see me get my grubby little hands around her neck.
I’d have some explaining to do on that one. I never was very good with explanations. I always managed to get my tongue tied in all the wrong places. Anything I said came across as lame and even I’d end up not believing anything I had to say.
The other options also had a few holes in them... If Polly flew away she could always fly back and Pierre could always walk into the pet shop and recognise Polly. Once again with both options there would be some explaining to do.
I eventually decided to try the avocado story and see if it really worked. I decided to tell Pierre that Polly flew away when I opened the cage to clean it. I wouldn’t have to worry about the creature deciding to fly back and Pierre wouldn't be able to find her if he decided to take a walk to look for her. I happened to have a ripe avo sitting in my fruit bowl just waiting for me.
I walked into my white kitchen with the morning sun streaming through the windows. Polly squawked in her cage “Polly want a cracker”. That sealed the deal.
“You’re going down, bitch.” I said as I looked at Polly through the bars of her cage.
The cage was perched on top of the kitchen counter, which also served as our dining room table. It was quite ironic if you think about it.
Why he insisted on putting it there only he knew. He could have kept it in his office with the rest of his junk.
We lived in a two bedroom flat in an overpriced complex. The flat didn’t have a dining room. The kitchen and lounge were open plan and the kitchen counter served as our dining room table as well as a room divider. Pierre used the second bedroom as an office.
I smiled as I cut the avo in half and removed the large pip in the middle. I then peeled off the hard skin, getting avo flesh all over my fingers in the process. I sliced it thinly. Licking my fingers, I fed it to Polly through the bars. She seemed to enjoy her last meal. I fed her a few pieces. The remaining slices I put some salt and pepper on and ate slowly, enjoying every victorious mouthful.
I wondered how long it would take her to die. I hoped it wouldn't take too long. I couldn’t have Pierre arriving home in the middle of her death scene.
While I waited for Polly to fall off her perch, I decided to make a romantic dinner out of her. I wanted to surprise Pierre. A candle lit dinner for two. It would make him feel better after losing Polly. A tender and juicy roast. I just had to decide what sauce was the best to cook her in. Should I make it tangy sweet and sour or an elegant white wine sauce? I decided that roast potato would go quite well with parrot. Then there was the question of which wine to serve with it. Was Parrot classified as game meat?
I had a look in the wine rack. We only had a bottle of Nederburgh Baronne. So that settled that. Red wine it was.
After a few hours of puttering around the house and waiting for the bloody bird to die, Polly fell off her perch with her legs stuck up in the air like they do in the cartoons. She finally croaked. It took her long enough. She obviously enjoyed making my life difficult. Her final act on this planet was to make sure that it would be a rush to get her cooked in time.
The odious job of plucking feathers and removing her innards began. I started plucking from the tail and moved up to her head. After plucking most of her feathers only the head still remained intact with feathers and all.
I got the cleaver out of the top draw and chopped her head off. As I chopped it off it went for a flight. It flew through the air with a small trail of blood following its flight. The head landed splat on the floor in the pile of feathers. A small glutinous puddle of blood caused some of the feathers to stick to her head.
The really disgusting part of the exercise was still to follow—gutting her. I put on my rubber gloves and shoved my right hand up Polly’s anus. I kept telling myself it was just like stuffing a chicken. It was just like a chicken. I repeated it to myself like a mantra. Only problem was that I normally bought chicken pieces. I’d never before roasted a whole chicken before. It was a novel experience.
I felt the guts gushing between my fingers. Bile rose in my throat. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I managed to get all the innards out and dumped them on the chopping board. I took some chopped up veggies out the fridge and stuffed them inside Polly’s empty stomach cavity. I then tied her feet together and put her in to the casserole dish with some chopped up potatoes and a dash of sherry along with Kan–Tong’s Honey, Sesame and Garlic sauce over it. I opted against the white wine sauce. It would have clashed with the red wine.
I put her in the oven at 120 degrees Celsius. A good slow cooking heat, which gave me time to get everything else ready. I wanted her meat to be soft and succulent.
While Polly cooked, I cleaned the house until it was spotless. Pierre hated a dirty house.
I then laid the dining room table, putting the new embroidered tablecloth on the table, along with the Noritake dinner service, which I got from my mother. I also laid out the good silver. I only used the good silver for special occasions. I put all the candles I could find all over the lounge and on the table. It was a bit of a fire hazard. The smell from the oven filled the room as I surveyed my handy work. Both were pretty damn good.
After taking one more look around the area, I strolled into the kitchen and opened the oven. It smelt delicious. My mouth watered. I put my oven gloves on and took the casserole dish out. I removed the lid and checked to see how much longer she had to cook. Almost ready. I put Polly back in the oven without the lid so that she could brown. The skin had to be crispy.
Pierre would be home soon. That gave me just enough time to put on my little black number and make myself look irresistible. I threw a towel over Polly’s cage, poured myself a glass of wine and went into our bedroom to get ready. I put red lipstick on my lips and ran a brush through my hair.
I heard Pierre’s keys scrape against the door as he unlocked it.
“Babes, I’m home,” he shouted from the entrance hall.
I stood against the bedroom doorpost with my glass of wine in hand, trying to strike a seductive pose, and waited for him to notice me. He walked out of the entrance hall and stopped dead in his tracks. I guess I had the required effect.
I pointed towards the dining room.
“I hope you're hungry,” I said with a smile.
“I'm starved,” he said.
“Then be a good boy and have a seat while I get dinner.”
While he sat down, I retrieved Polly from the oven and returned to the table with a parrot casserole cooked to perfection. I put the dish on the table and poured Pierre a glass. He sniffed the air like a hunting dog on the scent of his prey. Strangely enough, this habit of his never used to annoy me but it bothered the hell out of me that night.
“So what's the special occasion?” he asked me.
“Oh nothing, I just thought I’d spoil you for a change” I replied.
I handed him the carving knife and asked him to carve the bird. I must say that I did a damn fine job, the meat started to fall off the bone.
“I didn’t know you could cook this well,” Pierre said while he carved his precious little Polly.
“You’d be surprised what I can do when I’ve got the right motivation,” I said and smiled at him.
Pierre tucked into the meal. I could have sworn he’d never seen food before. About half way through the meal he looked up at me f
or the first time since he started hoovering the food down his gullet.
“Where’s Polly? She’s awfully quiet tonight?” He asked between mouthfuls.
“Don’t worry, she’s fine. She’s right where she belongs...”
Fat Werewolf in the City
“It's not my fault,” Jim said, as he stared down at the bloody corpse lying at his feet. “I didn't ask for this curse.”
The beast had bitten him on the last full moon, while he was locking up the store. He hadn't seen it coming out of the shadows. He didn't hear its growl. All he felt were its teeth as it took a chunk out of his thigh. He only caught a glimpse of its teeth as he lay on the pavement screaming and bleeding. Its bloody mouth grinned at him and then ran off, swallowed up by the dark shadows of the tall buildings surrounding him. His screams had attracted the attention of some gang-bangers who then robbed him of the little money in his wallet, but also of his clothes. One of them had taken pity on him and called emergency services. The ambulance arrived twenty minutes later. The blood loss had been pretty severe and he lost consciousness as they loaded him into the ambulance.
The city centre was never a safe bet at night, but his parents had opened the store there twenty years before and they wouldn't move out of the city or let him sell the store. Once they were gone, he'd sell up and move some place safer. The city was home to all sorts of weirdoes, including him now. At the time of the attack, he hadn't realised that he would turn into a monster. He'd just thought it was a normal animal bite from a big dog. Okay! A really bad dog bite from a really big dog. After they'd stitched him up, he'd gotten a tetanus shot at the hospital and the doctor had said he would be fine. It would only leave a nasty scar. That was all. If only the doctor had been right.
Sliced and Diced Page 2