“Couldn’t find Purple Passion,” he babbled. “Not sure they sell it anymore. Kinda fruity, but this stuff isn’t half-bad.” He offered her the mostly-full bottle which she gladly accepted with an unencumbered hand. Strawberry daiquiri. It tasted wonderful. He sat down beside her, much too closely, and said, “Have you given it some thought?”
Julia sipped from the bottle, savored the flavor, tried to stall.
“Well, have you?” A delicate hand landed at the small of her back, just above her bare bottom. It made her feel very self-conscious, vulnerable, and afraid. She played coy. “Given what some thought?” Her chin trembled as she spoke.
“You know good and well what I’m referring to.” The hand caressed her back, slipped down to gently rub a buttock. “You and I giving it a shot. I was hoping we might.”
Good lord, what could she possibly say? Her mind ran wild as her lips pursed. She forced another drink to buy time.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know we got off on the wrong foot. And I don’t usually smoke. I can put it out if you like.”
“N-no,” she stuttered. “I just. I don’t know. Thanks. I’d appreciate it. I don’t care for cigarette smoke.”
He took a final drag off the butt, flicked ashes as he gazed at it appraisingly. “I can tell that you’re not interested in me, in my proposal. It’s a shame, really.”
Yes, it’s all a shame. Being trapped down in your basement.
“You can lead a horse to water,” he reasoned, “but as they say, you can’t make the ninny drink.”
Julia flinched as the man brought the smoldering cigarette butt quickly down to grind it out on a thigh. She screamed and, in a knee-jerk reflex, slammed the wine cooler bottle into his face. She did so left-handed and without sufficient force. The bottle, still intact, shattered on concrete when he batted it out of her hand.
“Goddamn you, bitch!” He slapped Julia across the face. Backhanded her before her head flew back and smacked solidly against the concrete wall. She kicked at him, but the chain around her ankle weighted down the effort and, without sufficient leverage, landed a shin-kick which did nothing to stop him.
Rage filled his eyes. Her heart thundered in her chest. Cold fear intensified as a sheen of perspiration broke out across her skin. Julia tried to maneuver such that she might knee him in the groin. If she could somehow incapacitate him, even for just a moment, perhaps she could get the chain around his throat and…
Please, God, let him have the padlock key in his pocket so I can escape this hellhole.
But before she could act further, a hand clamped around her throat. Though she pounded fists at his head and shoulders, he endured the punishment long enough to drag her lengthwise on the cot and – Oh, shit! – reach down to the floor.
He retrieved a shard of glass. Using the bottle neck as a handle, the jagged end jutted up like the business end of a dagger.
Nooo! she tried to scream, but little sound escaped.
“Inconsiderate bitch!”
Julia watched fearfully in slow motion as pointed glass parted the flesh at her belly, allowing a pool of crimson to escape. Pain surpassed fear a split-second later. She watched in terror as the shard retreated, in preparation of another thrust.
A fist shot forth, shearing off the point of the makeshift dagger before it could stab into her again. The man retaliated with a fist of his own. Her head snapped sideways as it pounded into her jaw.
“Now,” he said. “Tonight’s the night,” whatever that meant. Julia didn’t know and didn’t truly care. She simply wanted him dead, with help on the way. He pummeled her face until she knew without question he’d broken her nose, busted her lips, and, what she feared most, fractured her face.
Tears stung her eyes but the stranglehold around her throat relented and he raised up off of her, thus allowing Julia to gulp air. She lay there, wracked with sobs, as he strode away purposefully, promising, with crude humor, “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
Oh, lord… Oh, shit…
Julia, clutching her belly in agony, forced herself to move. She stood no chance of escape but knew she must try to protect herself, however futile the effort might seem. She rolled from the cot, to kneel on the floor. Glass crunched under her knees but she didn’t care. She scanned the floor for the largest shard she could find, then clutched it tightly in one hand, ignoring the bite of its sharp edges.
Come back, you son of a bitch, she thought defiantly. Let’s see how you like being stabbed.
He came flying down the stairs a moment later, a wicked-looking knife in his hand.
“This isn’t the one I used to kill Sharon,” he said, “but it’s the one I’m going to use to kill you.”
A lightheadedness overcame Julia, nearly causing her to drop her weapon. But she didn’t. She shook her head, “Nooo,” in attempt to clear it. She slashed wildly, missing entirely. The unwieldy arc allowed him to chop her forearm, forcing her to drop the glass this time. He promptly crushed it with a boot.
“Now you’re fucked,” he said, taunting her with the blade. “I like this one better. Longer, heavier, better balanced.”
The grayish-black blade jabbed up toward Julia’s abdomen as she screamed in terror. Its sharp point speared into her belly, bringing a white-hot jolt of pain unlike anything she’d ever felt. The serrated, saw-like ridges along the upper edge could be felt ripping her apart as she, now doubled-over in pain, experienced its painful retreat.
Julia found herself clutching the man’s shoulder to keep from collapsing. Unbearable pain threatened to bring her to her knees. Her mind went wild as he shoved her back on the cot. Each movement brought more pain. So much pain that it became an excruciating white noise to the nerve endings in her belly, as she kicked and flailed, screaming for her life.
Julia’s eyes grew wide when the next punishment became apparent. He’d switched the knife to the other hand and unbuckled his belt. He cleared leather from their loops in one grand gesture, then, whipping the belt through the air, lashed out with it.
The belt whipped across her arms. Slapped across her face. When leather snapped against a breast, exciting pain across the nipple, Julia’s unbelievable nightmare became reality.
I’m going to die!!!
Then, as the belt lashed, Julia desperately grabbed hold. Her palm, bloodied and slick, began to lose grasp, but she latched on with both hands and pulled. The effort proved short-lived as the hunting knife jabbed into her side, nicking a rib.
“Let loose, goddamn it,” he said, spittle spraying her face with a scent of alcohol. She wondered how many drinks he’d consumed, not that it mattered. She wept beneath his weight as he pulled the belt from her hands. Before she knew what had happened, he’d looped it around her wrists and threaded it through its buckle. Then tightened it as much as possible. Julia, struggling to slip free, felt the knife brush against her knuckles. He’d set it down to fasten her wrists. If somehow she could—
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.
Her movements became subtle – she needed that weapon – but pinned beneath his weight, leg shackled and wrists bound, she saw no way to overcome him. She frightfully watched him undo his fly and lower his jeans.
“Please don’t. We can try…” Meaning a relationship. “We can do whatever you want.”
“Of course we will,” he agreed. And judging by his bobbing erection he wished to rape her again.
Her legs parted, to humiliatingly allow him to penetrate with his penis instead of the knife.
Please, Lord, help me. Please!
His cock entered roughly, tearing flesh. He spat on her, between the legs, and after slicking himself with saliva, pushed into her. Lubrication proved minimal. Her body tore as he thrust into her.
He thrust and thrust as she prayed he wouldn’t last long, that he’d finish then leave her be. With a little luck (and enough prayer) perhaps she wouldn’t bleed out. You could live a for a long time before dying from a gut wound, she recalled from
a movie, though, based on the amount of pain, she didn’t know if she could believe that tidbit of information.
The man began to grunt as he pounded into her. She lay prone, simply wishing the nightmare to end. And then she heard the most terrifying thing ever.
“It’s not the same. No,” he complained, “not at all. But I know what to do.”
He pulled out and away, brought the knife down in one hand, the other still pinning wrists over Julia’s head.
Eyes pinched shut and Julia screamed at the top of her lungs. He’d rolled aside and the blade, drawn back with a cocked elbow, thrust forward to spear her between the legs.
She screamed! She thrashed! Agony turned her body into one painful livewire, jolts of electric pain sending her body into an uncontrollable spasm.
“The knife will make you wet for me,” the heinous voice promised. “Wet with blood.”
The knife shredded her vagina into ground meat. Things started to go black but the knife-fuck ended and breast slashes began. Julia shot daggers into his eyes as he thrust his hard cock into her destroyed pussy.
“No dry-humping for me this time, bitch. Nice and wet. Bloody and wet.”
He groaned, enjoying the sickeningly erotic act being perpetrated against her.
“It’s better this time…” He moaned. “So damn good.”
The pain seemed excruciating, especially considering the superficial (and not so superficial) cuts he gave as he carved her body.
Please, let it stop. Oh, please!
To add insult to injury, Julia thought her body had started trying to lubricate itself as Mother Nature had intended, but at this point she couldn’t be sure; their bodies slapped together wetly from all the blood, and his shirt and body were covered in it. She simply wanted it to end.
Then she sensed his body stiffen. The knife plunged into her side, puncturing a lung and stealing away her breath. He impaled himself in her and froze. She screamed bloody murder (more likely she’d never stopped screaming but now the sound registered in her ears) as he ejaculated in her ruined vagina.
Her world began to grow dim and Julia felt breath on her neck.
“I love you, Sharon. I always will.”
A tender touch of lips met hers before cold steel gratefully dragged across her throat.
Then all pain ceased.
Chapter 20
Fog rolled in thick as cotton, which made the going slow and somewhat dangerous. This happened occasionally, a combination of warm ground, cool air, recent rain, and a high water level on the Mississippi river. And, tonight of nights, fog worked to his advantage. Drivers, in attempt to stay safe, drove at a crawl to get where they needed to be, if they drove at all. The fog hadn’t been quite so thick when he’d left the church in his pickup truck. But now, using a backpack to carry a pick and shovel, fog provided just the cover he needed. Sure, cover of darkness and a remote locale would probably have been enough – that’s what he’d been counting on when he set out – but this worked better. He’d look quite suspicious toting a shovel around on backroads after midnight.
He arrived at the church on weary legs. She lay there, just as he’d left her, bloodied. Dead.
Though he longed to hold her one last time – I’m so sorry, Sharon. You deserve love, not convenience – a presence of mind warned him to be careful of blood, though dried and congealed already.
He set to digging in what appeared an empty plot in the tiny old graveyard behind the church. He paid little mind to the markers, with the exception of the tallest. A cross bearing the weather-beaten inscription Rev. Matthew James Fitzgerald 1863 – 1918 touted the man as God’s Faithful Servant.
I was your servant, Sharon, he thought with the first bite of shovel into dirt. But I served poorly. I failed you. However, he vowed not to fail her in laying her to rest. He set to work digging a plot far from Reverend Fitzgerald as, judging by graffiti, she needed a more inconspicuous location.
He knew a shallow grave deep in the woods offered less chance of discovery. It also offered a lifetime of regret and heartache; a plot behind the old church made sense for many reasons he thought, as he bent his back toward the work of upturning soil. They’d made love here, behind the church. Though vandalized on occasion, for the most part teens had moved on to other venues. The gravel pits proved a local favorite, as did corn and soybean fields, cotton, and of course, a handful of other abandoned and dilapidated houses (some rumored to be haunted) sprinkled about the more rural parts of the county. Prime location for all sorts of things. He and Sharon had had the old church, but the latest crop of frisky teenagers had undoubtedly moved on to locales of their own.
Tears showered the growing hole as the man realized innocence had died here tonight, and no matter what came of it, he could never get it back.
“I’m so sorry, Sharon,” he muttered, forcing the shovel blade deeper with the weight of a foot. “I should have gone to get you. Should have driven you home from Michigan…” The mound of loose soil grew taller and he wiped sweat from his brow; fog swirled around in cloying harassment. “I failed and we lost. We lost so much.”
He remained vigilant, though, digging the hole. The small graveyard had been chosen wisely and, despite one nasty tree root, its soft ground gave no trouble a few swings of the pick couldn’t handle. While the night seemed to last forever – a heartbreaking lesson in humility – he finally found himself shirtless and perspiring as he gaped at the small chasm he’d formed for his love.
I may have failed you in life, he thought, but I won’t fail you in death.
Tearful, he went to retrieve Sharon’s body. She’d never felt heavier. Coach’s voice from weight training class echoed in his head as he struggled to bring her into his arms: Lift with your legs, not your back.
He mentally thanked his coach, knowing that without this bit of information he might have resorted to the disgraceful act of dragging the body through the grass.
No clear-cut easy way presented itself to place her in the hole and a sobbing fit overcame him as her crumpled corpse tumbled down.
After so much love, to be discarded so casually, Sharon’s voice echoed in his mind, prompting a gush of tears.
“You discarded me for David,” he voiced, immediately catching the lie and amending: You probably felt discarded when I left for school.
It all seemed so horrible, so tragic, so… Avoidable.
A first-time love, a high-school romance, a love that had been meant to be… all culminated in this.
The first shovelful of dirt to hit her face pained him beyond belief. Beyond that, moving on auto-pilot, the hole filled in a fraction of the time it had taken to dig.
“Goodbye, my love. Rest in peace.”
A scattering of dry leaves helped to conceal the newly-dug grave, though at this point he didn’t mind if someone discovered it at all. Nothing mattered now. Nothing at all.
~ ~ ~
It didn’t matter, he realized, where the body went, as long as it went deep enough something didn’t dig it up. He’d managed to stuff it into two heavy-duty trash bags. One would have sufficed, but that would have required dismemberment, an act he wasn’t opposed to performing but seemed entirely unnecessary. The first bag had gone over the head, the second covering Julia’s legs. Duct tape held both bags together while multiple strips cinched an unruly body into a more manageable bundle. He used a fireman’s carry to lug it to the truck. Tailgate down, the Power Wagon shook as the body flopped from shoulder to truck bed with a meaty thud.
“Hush now,” he commanded barking dogs to minimal effect. Then he fired up the truck and, preemptively switching into four-wheel drive, rolled off the gravel driveway and into the backyard. Although not the best location to bury a body either, a remote spot on his five-acre plot, somewhere in the wooded section, seemed well-suited for the endeavor. Nobody visited him and nobody, legally or illegally, hunted there. Chances of discovery, at least during his lifetime, seemed insignificant. And so, with shovel and pick, he set out
to find a spot.
He decided on a low area where he typically buried burn barrels filled with ash. The county didn’t offer trash removal service this far out in the county; people used 50-gallon drums to burn trash. And when the barrels became filled, which took a while to do, people typically buried them somewhere on their property. Ash to ash, dust to dust. As for the metal drum, rust to dust. The low area, once dug deeper, would allow sufficient room for a body and even, if he chose to do so, the next filled barrel above it, the low-lying area eventually becoming a small mound. Nobody would think twice to search for a body well beneath a series of buried drums, or so he reasoned.
Shovel in hand, he bent his back to the task at hand.
Slow going, the act drudged up old memories which tugged at his heart.
Sharon’s bloodied rape.
Knife blade plunging into her as he humped her screaming, dying body.
The most incredible sex of his life…
As he stole away the life of his lover.
He removed his shirt and used it to mop away tears and sweat. Then he cinched it around his waist by the sleeves. The dogs had found him but kept their distance as he toiled away at the less forgiving ground.
As the hole grew deeper memories turned to the after efforts of that fateful night so many horrible years ago. Having raped and murdered the love of his life, terror struck him cold. He couldn’t possibly bypass scrutiny at her disappearance. His crime of passion would surely be discovered and he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars. However, the true punishment for his actions, he knew, would be having to live with the atrocity he’d perpetrated against an innocent teenaged girl.
Yet it didn’t feel that way. She’d seemed wise beyond her years, putting into motion (or allowing to happen) things which essentially, at least to him, constituted her plan B: David providing her a place to live.
I’m the victim here, he repeatedly told himself though never truly believing his own lie. He’d loved her more than life itself. Albeit her life, not his, which remained the greatest travesty of all.
Insanity Road Page 12