by Weston Ochse
As I walked through the yard, my foot sinks into some mud. Cursing, I pull my boot away, trying to shake some of the wetness out. It had rained this afternoon. A room by the balcony was the only room that was lit up. In front of the tree, up on the second floor, was a window.
I got to the base of the tree and began to climb. It was an old tree, thick limbs. The window was shaded up—I wasn't going to see a damn thing from here. I could see shadows dancing across the shade, indicating that someone was inside. I eyed up the balcony reluctantly, wondering if it was really worth the risk. Once I was up there, I was in a very vulnerable position if the people inside decided that they wanted to come out and enjoy the cool evening.
I was about to swing over and jump to the balcony when the whole yard filled up with light, the back door opening. The man with the slicked-back hair came out, carrying a garbage bag. He moved through the yard, carefully stepping around the muddy area. I prayed that he wouldn't look up into the tree and see me. If he noticed the wet hole that I had left with my shoe, he didn't show it. He walked over to a garbage can by the garage, threw the bag inside, and disappeared back into the house. The light went back out. He never looked up. I waited about ten minutes for my heart to calm down and I climbed over to the balcony, doing a kind of daredevil move that I have to say made me proud. It's a shame that no one was there to witness me do it.
On the balcony was a three-person couch. Upon a small table was one of those scented candles that everybody seems to be buying these days. It smelled of lilac, which was a scent that I always liked. A sliding glass door led into the house. It was covered with a drape, but there was at least a two-inch crack that I would be able to see through.
I crept quietly up to the window and peered inside.
A woman was lying on the bed, totally nude. Her dark hair was cut short, a style that I had always found attractive. She had the most amazingly high cheekbones and a body that would put any of the girls to shame in the pages of Playboy. Much to my surprise this was a different woman than the one I had seen when they had first moved in. This was a good thing, because to tell you the truth, I kinda liked this one better.
I was beginning to sweat so I pulled off my ski mask and shoved it in my pants. She was staring at the ceiling, her eyes rolling around as if she was drunk or high.
The bedroom was the kind of place that you would bring a girl like this. It was decorated almost entirely in red, even the pillows. Erotic pictures covered the walls, many of them depicting scenes of hardcore S&M.
A shadow fell across the bed, disturbing my sexual fantasies of what I could do to her. There was a television on the dresser, pornographic images on the screen.
A man, entirely dressed in skintight leather, stepped in front of the bed. There were no sleeves and his muscled arms protruded out. He was holding what appeared to be a black leather mask in his right hand. His whole ass was showing through a hole in the back of the pants. It was the same man with the slicked back hair that had taken out the garbage about ten minutes earlier.
The girl looked up, smiling drunkenly. He put the mask on his head; it had a zipper on the back, which he promptly used. Now all I could see was his eyes, nose, and mouth. In seconds, he was upon her, his hips thrusting roughly up and down. I guess foreplay wasn't part of this guy's repertoire.
He brought his hands up, which were covered with tight leather gloves, and wrapped them around her throat. Her mouth opened and her tongue protruded out, but she wasn't trying to stop him, which totally took me off guard. As he squeezed her throat, he drove into her violently.
I was familiar with this kind of thing. I think it was called autoerotic asphyxiation. Supposedly, if you cut the oxygen off from your brain while having sex you will achieve a heightened orgasm. Some years back, teenagers were accidentally killing themselves all over the country doing this sort of thing, I saw it on Oprah. They tie a rope to the ceiling and then put a noose around their neck. They would then masturbate while doing this incredibly stupid thing. Of course, they passed out and then died because the rope was still around their necks.
Finally she attempted to stop him, her hands trying to pull him away. He kept going. The veins stood up on her arms as she struggled to save her life. He squeezed harder, leaning in with his weight, teeth clenched. She scratched at him, her nails leaving deep wounds in his forearms.
At this point, I could visibly see the strength leaving her body. A minute later, her hand hung limply over the side of the bed.
I was stunned. I felt as strangled as the girl on the bed. I had just watched a man murder a woman and had done nothing about it. I was as guilty as he was. One of those hands might as well have been mine.
He came walking towards the balcony door.
Not having enough time to climb off, I crouched on the side of the couch. I was just ducking down when the glass door slid open. He walked over to edge of the balcony and unzipped his mask. I prayed that he wouldn't decide to light the candle.
"Oh, blessed, blessed oxygen," he whispered.
He stood only feet in front of me, his hands running through his sweat drenched hair. After about a minute, his breathing became more relaxed. He turned around, threw his mask on the couch right near my head, and walked back into the bedroom. He left the glass door wide open.
I heard his footsteps going down the stairs and I was finally able to exhale. It was time to get the fuck out of here. I climbed out from the side of the couch and risked a quick glance into the bedroom.
The woman was still lying on the bed where he had left her. Other than the red finger marks embedded into her throat, she appeared very much alive. I had to know for sure; maybe she had just passed out.
I slid silently into the bedroom, listening carefully for any signs of my autoerotic friend. I could hear him clattering things around downstairs. It sounded like pots and pans. Have sex and kill a girl, cook a hot meal—now that's the perfect evening for sick fucks, eh? All you need is some Enya on the CD player.
I tiptoed towards the bed. Not that it mattered much because my shoes sunk right into the thick red carpet.
The girl was definitely a corpse, her bloodshot eyes frozen in death. There were glistening tear tracks going down the side of her cheeks. I felt for a pulse, but there was nothing.
A large plaster head of Jesus was on the dresser, his eyes looking at me sadly from underneath his bloody crown of thorns. It's a sick world that we live in, folks, when a Peeping Tom like myself becomes suddenly normal by comparison. How in the hell does a sick fuck like this factor Jesus into his sadomasochistic life?
Suddenly, I realized what must have happened to the first girl that I had seen two months earlier. I winced when I remembered the muddy ground outside. I didn't think that I was going to be visiting any graveyards tonight, but it looked like that was the case.
I looked down at the carpet and I gasped. I had tracked mud into the house.
I ran out of the door, throwing the ski mask back on my face as I went. I was down the tree and out of the yard in minutes. As soon as I felt I was at a safe distance, I made my way back to my house. I went into my back yard and quietly entered my house. I jumped into the shower, trying desperately to wash away the feelings of nausea that were slamming into me every minute or so. After showering for about ten minutes, I dried off and went to the kitchen. I poured myself a tall glass of iced tea and went to sit in the living room.
I didn't turn on any lights. I only sat in the dark trying to think of what to do next. Tulip, my dog, came over and nudged my leg. I pushed her away.
I couldn't call the police. What was I supposed to tell them? Also, I couldn't tell my wife, for she would most definitely just divorce me for watching in the first place.
I thought of the way in which the girl had died and I was astonished to find that I felt no pity or sympathy whatsoever. I thought about the way that her tongue protruded out of her mouth as he choked her and I was surprised to find that I had an erection. On some deep dark le
vel of my psyche I had actually enjoyed what had happened. The nausea that I felt must have been only the fear wearing off. I had come uncomfortably close to getting caught. For one thing, I had left muddy tracks in his bedroom.
I smiled when I came to an inevitable revelation: tomorrow I would be going back.
I walked down the hallway and into our bedroom. My wife had left the nightlight on as she always did. I stood over the bed and watched as her chest rose and fell in the slow and relaxed breathing of sleep. I had never noticed this before, but she had the most beautiful throat. It looked regal. How many times had I looked at her face and never noticed that swan-like neck? I imagined my hands around her throat and felt myself becoming aroused. Oh yes, I would most definitely be going back tomorrow. I entered my bed and caressed my wife into awaking.
It was one of the most memorable nights of lovemaking that we ever had.
The next day at the office, I could not stop thinking about the murder. I even watched the scene from different angles, sometimes even picturing myself in the lead role while the murderer watched from the window.
I was definitely going back tonight. I figured it was unlikely that he would kill a girl so soon, but figured it was worth a shot. Hopefully this was something that he did on a regular basis. I floated through the day on an exhilarating natural high. Never had my nightly experiences left me feeling this way.
When I arrived home, he was sitting on my sofa, a cup of coffee in his hand. His hair was perfectly slicked back and he was wearing wire-rim glasses. Handsome fucker, too.
My wife was sitting on a chair right across from him, laughing at something that he said. I quickly tried to hide my astonishment. I hope the Academy recognizes me this year, because I put on quite a performance. I didn't even flinch as I walked into the living room, a shitty grin pasted on my face.
My wife looked up and smiled. "Oh, Lewis. This is John Slesser, our new neighbor. I ran into him as I was walking Tulip and I invited him over for a cup of coffee. He's says it's hard to make friends around here. I told him that it won't be hard with us."
He stood up, smiled charmingly, and offered his hand. Oooh, this bastard was good. "You must be Lewis. It's great to run into some nice people on this block. Your wife is the first person to have even acknowledged my existence."
I shook his hand and took a seat. "Most of the people on this block are pretty good people once you get to know them, John. They just need to get used to you is all. They're just nervous around strangers."
"Well, I'm glad I'm not a stranger any longer," John said. He didn't exude one iota of the menace that he had exhibited last night when he murdered that girl. He was putting on a four-star performance; I'll give him that.
Did he know that I had watched him, or was this just one big coincidence? I wasn't a firm believer in coincidences. When you look close enough at the world, things always have a reason for happening. The patterns come out.
"So, Jessica tells me that you take nightly walks," John said, that perpetual smile never leaving his face. It was if he had painted it on, practicing every night in the mirror. "Mind if I tag along some nights? Sitting around the house can drive a bachelor like myself to climb the walls. Every man needs a little blessed oxygen now and then."
I looked over at him, wondering if he was mocking me. He appeared absolutely genuine. "Sure, I'd like that a lot," I found myself saying. "Jessie was walking with me for a little while, but she stopped. I could use a little company."
"Good," John said. "It's been pretty lonely lately."
I decided to put him on the spot. "Didn't you have a wife, or a girlfriend? I could have sworn when I saw you move in there was a woman. An attractive woman."
John nodded, frowning as if he was in great pain. "Yeah. Sue left me. I came home from work and she was gone. I think she took off with someone she knew at work. Even her own parents don't know where she is."
"That's so sad," my wife said. "I'm sorry to hear that."
John turned to her and offered his devilish smile. "You don't need to be sorry. We weren't getting along that great anyway. I've been playing the field. I've dated lately, but none of them have clicked with me. Anyway, I'm elated I actually found some friendly people." He turned to me. "Does next week sound good to you, Lewis? I'm having a guest tonight."
I bet you do, you scummy bastard, I thought to myself, but I smiled and said, "Next week sounds good to me, John. We'll get to know each other."
"Well, I better get going," John said. He looked over at my wife and put his hand on the pendant around her neck. "Jessica, this pendant is absolutely beautiful. Not only are you an expert interior decorator," he said, waving his arms around at the furnishings. "But, you're a pro in your taste in jewelry as well."
My wife blushed and thanked him. We said our goodbyes and he walked out the door, whistling a happy tune as he went. On second thought, I think the Academy is going to snub me this year. The winner of the Oscar for Best Actor is walking down my sidewalk. He even managed to get a good look at my wife's neck.
"Well, isn't he a nice man?" Jessica asked as she watched him through the window. "That nice and single too! I'm calling Debbie up right now. I couldn't find her a better person to date if I paid him. You're going to have to invite him over for dinner one night and I'll introduce them to each other."
"You do that, Jessie," I said, a big-ass grin on my face. "That sounds like a great idea."
And I meant it, too. I fucking hated Debbie, the miserable slut. Always trying to get my wife to go to the single bars with her. A date with this psycho would do her good.
As for myself, I would be paying Johnnie-boy a little visit tonight. My wife was already on the phone, chattering to her girlfriend about what a perfect man John Slesser was.
That night after my wife had gone to bed, I was out of the house and off into the night. In minutes I was in his back yard, carefully stepping around the muddy area. This time there was a brand new spot to step around. I smiled grimly. I was immediately up the tree and onto the balcony.
I looked into the window, shocked to realize that I had missed the show. He was just getting off of a blond woman. Her tongue was protruding from her mouth and her eyes were bugged out. He stood up and pulled the mask off of his head. He threw it onto her body, covering her face in black leather. Finally, he turned around and disappeared from view. I waited a few minutes, but heard nothing.
Once again, I couldn't help myself. I tested the glass door and it slid open effortlessly. I was walking over to the body when I heard the sound of something cutting through the air. I looked to my right just in time to see John swinging a baseball bat at my side.
My knee shattered, broken to pieces. I fell to the floor moaning in pain.
He was instantly in my face, his minty breath blasting into my eyes. "Say one word and I'll kill you, Lewis."
John walked over to the door and shut it before dragging me up against the wall. My knee felt like a bag of broken glass. He pushed the corpse roughly off the bed and it thudded into the floor.
He walked over to the television and turned it on, grabbing a remote control. His foot collided once again with my busted knee sadistically, blasting unbelievable jolts of agony through my body. I screamed and his hand was instantly over my mouth.
He looked at me coldly. "I have something to show you, Lewis. That is you under there, isn't it?" he gently lifted up my ski mask. "Why, yes it is. I thought we weren't going to see each other until next week? Why don't you watch this."
John gently eased the ski mask back onto my face. He pointed the remote at the television and sat down on the bed. I was watching myself enter the bedroom yesterday. He had taped the whole thing.
"You know, Lewis," John said, smiling. "It is said that God is ubiquitous. Do you know what that word means? It means that God is omnipresent. That he is fucking everywhere."
He walked over to the plaster head of Jesus and turned it around, showing me the camera that he had wired into it. I moane
d as my leg brought electrifying pain throughout my body.
He put the head back on the dresser. "There is a lesson to be learned from all this, Lewis, and that's to be a very good boy in case Jesus is watchin'. And he was watching, Lewis, wasn't he? I tape everything. Everybody's got their own home movies. At least you can't say mine are boring like the usual ones. Mine don't have Gramma's final visit to the beach and little Jimmie's first step like the ones that most people have."
He grinned at me and then brought his fist up, slamming it into his mouth. He was still smiling when he spit out his tooth. It landed on the floor by my foot. One of his teeth was bent back to the roof of his mouth. This fucker was attacking himself.
"Lewis, you hit me," John said, showing me his new broken teeth with a wide smile. He tapped my knee with the bat and brought me into a whole new level of pain. "I think I just got myself attacked by a prowler. I think I better defend myself from that mean old prowler with the scary ski mask. There is an old saying. One you probably heard dozens of time in your life. Who's watching the watcher? That's the saying. Ever heard that? I bet you have, Lewis. I bet you have."
It was surreal watching as the baseball bat came whizzing at my face.
The Qualities of Mercy
Brother Sebastian kneeled upon the red crushed-velvet carpet, arthritic knees resting in the depressions of a thousand other communions. The other monks had left for the orchard. He envied them their peaceful, simple work. He would much rather be pruning back the cherry trees, keeping the chaos at bay, than readying for the task to come.
He steadied his hands on the dark wooden rail in front of him as he felt the silent movement of the priest to his right. He didn't need to see, to know that Father Roy was administering the Eucharist to Brother Peter. Sebastian allowed himself a small smile as he reveled in the image of the fidgety young monk and Christ occupying the same space in the same time—the miracle of transubstantiation. Yet a miracle it was for God showed no favorites.
No matter how many times he communed with the lord, it was as refreshing as the first. Communion, to taste the maker and become one, was the greatest honor—the greatest gift. To allow oneself to unburden to become as perfect as could possibly be. Moments later, he felt the familiar sensation of his heart lighten and his soul soaring free as he too partook of the flesh and blood of the Lord.