by Erin Lee
...Well. I guess she is. Now.
I laugh out loud. Of course, there’s really nothing funny about this situation. Having a husband in grave health is hardly comical. Neither is what I’m about to do. “Love thy neighbor” is a pretty big issue. Or it will be when I am judged myself. I remind myself that I should at least make it as quick and easy as I can. I must have mercy, if it’s even possible.
I stare at the sign, wondering if I’ll have any time for a nap before a new day comes and how I’ll explain to Rancher why I’m so tired all day tomorrow. Luckily, with how he’s been feeling, he probably won’t notice anyway. He’s getting worse and worse. It takes two hours to get him up and moving enough just to get him to his appointments. When he is up, the only thing he seems to be able to manage is the garden. Tall grass at the bottom of our driveway blows gently in the night wind. He never did fix the tore up mailbox, smacked by rocks from the neighbors’ kids only a few days after Henry.
She needs to hurry the hell up. He’ll be up in two hours to feed the cows. I can’t have him picking up on what’s happening. That just won’t work. I’ve got to be able to hide her. He can’t see me. He just can’t ever know. He’ll never do it—no matter how much he hates people. Not if he knows. Later, I can tell him. After he’s better. He’ll forgive me. He has to. I’m doing it for him. And for the animals. God would stop me if he didn’t approve. Hurry the hell up!
As if she can read my thoughts, and between laughter and wanting to cry for what’s to come, headlights that can only be hers pull up the long gravel road that leads to our two houses at the end of Cypress. A mix of excitement and panic fill my gut. I breathe in deep gulps of air through my nose, wishing I’d thought to take more anxiety medication. I tell myself this is what I’ve been waiting for. I tell myself it’s the Lord’s will. The headlights glow brighter. Bingo.
I jump from my perch on the rock long ago plucked from the earth and move quickly to the edge of the woods that line her driveway. Spotting a fat tree, I race to it and crouch behind it. Only about ten feet from where she will soon park her car, I wait in a squatting position. I tell my heart to stop its frantic racing. It won’t.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump-thump. xxx
Calm the fuck down. You are going to do this, do it fast, and get her home. There’s nothing to it. It’ll take days for anyone to know. You can do this. And Rancher is the perfect alibi. Besides, who would believe the vegan freaks would ever hurt a soul? You can’t even kill a bug. It’s against the vegan code. Everyone knows that. They hate you for it too. This is going to be okay. He’ll get what he needs and nothing will go wrong. Chill the fuck out.
I use the minute it takes for Virginia to stop at her mailbox to check for mail to creep even closer to the spot where she’ll park. The closer I can be, I figure, the better. It occurs to me to just stand up—to let the light shine on me. It’s not like by the time I’m done with her she’ll be able to speak and file a report on me. Still, the idea of sneaking up on her like I’ve seen a million times in the movies seems better—safer, somehow. She can’t stop what she doesn’t know is coming. It won’t take long to get the tranquilizer in her neck. Dosed for a 1500 pound large breed animal, it’ll take even less time and a quarter of the dose to take her down. Fortunately, with my plan, it won’t matter what’s in her body. I’ve checked—it won’t hurt us. Her body won’t have long enough to get it to the muscles. The dose is enough to stop her heart from pumping her full of poison. Chill out. Just do what you came to do. There won’t be evidence. You’ll see to it. Trust yourself. I finally settle on a spot between a tree and the edge of her modest ranch house. As my body stills, so does my paranoia about getting caught. Like a predator in wait, I simply watch.
I squat, still, behind a thick bush with dead leaves, wondering what’s taking her so long to park the car. Later, when things are said and done, I’ll come back to prune the bush. It’ll be like a tribute to her or something, I tell myself. She never did take care of her yard. Her carelessness is just another reason I won’t miss her too much. She hasn’t been the greatest of neighbors. And fixing up her place will be right good too in other ways. I’ll look like the friendly neighbor in mourning.
They won’t think anything more of it. They’ll call me the predictably harmless “tree hugger” and ask me how we’re surviving without sending our herd to slaughter. I’ll smile, lie, and tell them we’re okay. I won’t mention that I just broke the vegan code of asking for consent. I won’t try to explain that she wasn’t an innocent animal or that I’ve once again become a predator. I have become them—again. I won’t inform them they have no room to judge. Instead, I’ll tell them about the sanctuary and how we’re thinking about a group discount. I’ll list off the sanctuary animal names until they roll their eyes and tell them we’re doing just fine on nuts and vegetables. “And, no. I don’t miss bacon. It makes me sick,” I’ll say. They’ll look at me like I’m fucking crazy. Just another day. And nothing to worry about. Frankly, I am used to it.
VIRGINIA—GINNY—finally parks her car. She turns off her headlights and assembles herself in the mid-sized white sedan for a moment more. Jesus, does she have any idea how late it is? Who does this? Hurry up! He’s gonna wake up! Watching her in the glow of her interior light, I can’t help but have second thoughts. They don’t last long. Rancher has no shot without this and my oath of loyalty was to him and him alone. ‘Til death do we part. ...What God has joined, no man shall set asunder. Like a rabbit skipping across an open field oblivious to the fox watching her, she finally flings open the driver’s side door.
Cree—eeeeeeeeeeeeee—eeek!
I leap from behind the bush.
She screams from a place so guttural it reminds me of the sounds of the old slaughtering barn.
Putting my index finger over my mouth, I silence her in a loud whisper. “Ginny. It’s just me.”
“Jesus! You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“What the hell are you doing out here this time of night? Is everything alright?”
“Sorry. My husband had an issue and I was wondering if you could come help me.”
“What’s going on? What kind of issue? Have you called 911?”
We haven’t told anyone about Rancher’s illness directly. But rumors in our small town spread quickly and it’s not like people can’t see something’s different with him. Hell, a conversation with the man is like a blinking light signaling he’s not all there like before. Even so, we haven’t wanted to bring more attention to ourselves. We’re private people. Luckily, it’s not too hard to keep people in the dark. Rancher doesn’t have much for kinfolk left. Hell, we haven’t even told the kids the full truth of it or how serious it is. But even if we planned to broadcast it, Virginia wouldn’t exactly be on the need-to-know list. She’s just a neighbor—a shitty, killer one with ugly shrubs who refuses to respect our choices and mocks us with her signs.
In darkness only interrupted by the light from the interior of her car, I approach her. I fumble in my back pocket for the four-inch tranquilizer syringe and pull it out. I’m not sure she notices, or even realizes what it is. It’s really dark out and I reckon hard to identify out of context. Standing only a few feet from her, I force a frown.
“He’s sick.”
“Oh? That’s awful. How so?”
Oh, please. Like you don’t already know. You’re friends with Sue Anderson. Don’t play dumb with me.
It occurs to me that Virginia is a nurse. It’s not so strange that I’d be here asking for help. I admit, I hadn’t thought of that before, but sometimes, things just happen for a reason.
She leans forward, as if inviting me to spill it all.
“What kind of sick?” she asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, you can come in. I just need to bring a few things in.”
She pops h
er trunk with a button on her key chain, explaining that she likes to grocery shop after long shifts because no one is in the store. She tells me she doesn’t like big crowds or people. I’d never have guessed. She’s known for having guests and is always inviting people over. Once, we had a whole row of cars line up on Cypress. Half of them even parked on our lawn. Ginny never apologized. Never explained what the crowd was about either. People just suck. At least, around these parts.
I listen to this yammering about the best times to shop and a sale on beef at $2.49 a pound and how normally she’d “buy it fresh, but not at such a steal” as she moves toward the trunk to take a few bags of groceries out. I offer to help her only as an excuse to get closer.
“Sure.”
It’s when she reaches inside for a bag at the belly of her trunk that I spring forward. Charging at her throat, I sink the needle deep into the back of her neck. In only seconds, she falls. She lands, face forward, half in the trunk, half on the ground.
Panic consumes me as I pull hard on her tiny shoulders to toss her to the ground. She lands with a thud so loud I’m sure someone will hear it. Frantic, I look around in the near, but not enough, darkness. I don’t want any light at all now. It’s not that her driveway isn’t long and twisty enough to veil me from potential drivers-by. It’s just that the thought that anyone could see this is enough to make me terrified. I should have taken two pills or something stronger. I didn’t anticipate how anxious this would make me. I hadn’t planned for the reality of what trying to save Rancher would actually do to the pit of my gut.
Stop. Calm down. Breathe. Panic won’t help anything. This couldn’t have happened if it wasn’t meant to be. This is your purpose. It will save him and the animals too. No more suffering for any of them at the hands of killers. An eye for an eye...
With her flat on her back on the ground behind the car, I scramble for her keys, only inches away, and race toward the driver’s side door. I slam it shut. Then, realizing the interior won’t go off that quickly, I open it again, turn the light off manually, and close the door more quietly. Darkness comes. Next, I do the same with the trunk. In blackness, my neighbor lies half-dead, and dead soon enough, on the ground. My work has only begun.
I run to the mailbox and chicken morgue out front. I grab the wagon and pull it up the driveway. Once I finally reach her, I make quick work of pulling her half-limp, half-stiff body into it. Her limbs hang on either side, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t feel anything and I need to get her—quickly—to the barn.
Pulling all 120 or so pounds of her across the street and onto our property isn’t as easy as it sounds. The gravel road makes for a bumpy ride. I’m not sure if she’s even dead or alive and don’t have time to check her pulse. Panting, I pull with everything I have in me. Focused on the fact that I’m pulling Rancher’s literal lifeline across our yards, I find the strength to get her the distance of three football fields and over lumps of weedy grass to the barn. Relieved, I pull the wagon into my final destination—the barn where we used to slaughter pigs.
It’s not a big building. It stands at about twenty by thirty feet. It’s big enough for a chopping block, all the tools I’ll need, and a couple of freezers. Rancher refuses to go in here now that I’ve convinced him it’s a murder scene and our very own death shop. Eventually, he hopes to turn it into something less grim, but not until he feels up to it. I have plenty of time to figure out what to do with my neighbor. I don’t even bother closing the door. Before I can work on her, I need to make sure I’ve left her yard clear of any type of evidence police might see.
Running back to her driveway, I pull her keys from my pocket. I should have worn gloves. My fingerprints are all over them. It won’t matter, I tell myself. I can keep the keys and bury them in the yard. It’s not like anyone will know they’re gone. She has to have another set or they will think the latest boyfriend took them. What’s more important now is getting the groceries that would alert anyone looking for her that something was very wrong.
In three trips, I’m able to transport the groceries from her trunk and driveway to the barn. I refuse to look at her cold, lifeless body. Now, I’m sure she’s dead. Her eyes are open and rolled back. I can’t look at her. I have to focus. I tell myself that, over and over, like it’s a mantra. I remind myself she is human and that her soul is by creation flawed.
I race back one last time to her house. When I’m sure I have everything, I lock her car. It won’t seem strange or like she left in a hurry now. Police will just reckon her boyfriend picked her up and that everything was normal. They may not think much of it at all until a few days pass. It’ll give me the time I need for us to consume her and give Rancher a fighting chance.
Back at the barn, I consider bringing the groceries in. But realizing half of them are meat, I decide against it. More animals wasted. I turn on the overhead light, lock the barn door from the inside, and pile the plastic, environmentally unfriendly bags in the corner along with her car keys. I can get rid of all that later. For now, I need to focus on dismantling her and getting her stored so she's healthy enough to eat. Cannibalism can be dangerous. I need to move fast. The last thing I need is a virus contaminating her and Rancher getting sicker.
With her body getting stiffer, it takes more strength to hoist her up on the blood-stained cutting block. It takes four tries to get her exactly how I want her—face down and flat. The first thing I do is undress her. Fortunately, with scrubs, that’s not a difficult task. I literally cut them off her with a blade I’ll use to dissect her later. I’ve learned to take full inventory of a slab before making a first cut.
I’ve done this before. I am guilty. I have done this to pigs and bulls alike—even ones we’d named. I’ve killed too many times to count; helping Rancher make the mortgage and thinking little of it. I’ve used bare hands to wrap their still-warm flesh up. I remind myself this is different only in that the victim here is guilty of original sin—a thing animals are not.
Once I have her naked, I pile her scrubs with the groceries and keys. I step back from the block to plan how I will go about this. I need to move quickly, but don’t want to miss anything. The wrong angle or approach will mean fatty cuts.
Rancher is an early bird. The only thing I have going for me is that it takes him so long to fully wake up now. I’m hoping it buys me more time. By my best guess, I have—at most—two hours before the light in our bedroom is alive. I decide to set priorities.
I move first to her left femur. I pull her legs apart so I can focus on just the left one. I take the carving tool and move right in for her calf. I work with precision. I pull long strips of muscle off her legs—impressed at how little fat there is. Virginia was always in pretty good shape. I pile the good strips on the block at her feet and throw the things I don’t need—tissue, bone, cartilage, knee caps, on the dirt barn floor. I’ll worry about clean up later.
I don’t take much time to think about what I’ve done. When the guilt creeps in, I remind myself she’s human. I tell myself that people suck and that all I am doing is bringing natural order back to how things should be. I know my justifications are off. I’m human too and never claimed to be perfect. When the guilt gets too much, I tell myself it would be even worse to stop now. To throw her away like I will the groceries in the corner. Pigs. Cows. Chickens. All killed for nothing and partly, now, my fault.
It takes two hours to fully cut her up. She falls away one piece at a time to something less recognizable as human and more like animal meat. Amazingly, in this form, humans look the same as their animal counterparts. We aren’t so different after all. I put cutlet-sized chunks of her into baggies and throw her in the freezer. The rest of her, including her head, I leave in a pile on the ground.
In a moment I don’t quite understand, something possesses me to taste her now—as if I need to be sure this will work out. Or, maybe, as a way of torturing myself. The reason doesn’t matter; only action ever does. I bring the tall, sharp blade I’ve used to
chop her apart to my mouth. In an elongated, smooth motion, I rub the bloodied tool along my lips. Be not afraid. Turning the blade outward so I don’t cut myself, I reach my tongue out for a taste of her blood. I stand there, alone in the old slaughter house with her blood on my lips, trying to figure out why I don’t feel guiltier. Am I evil? Is it because I’m doing this for love? Or, is it that it’s what we’ve always done? A matter of survival.
Her blood tastes no different than my own. I don’t recoil the way I would if it were the blood of an innocent animal. It’s the same as mine. Yet it’s not. I put the knife down and decide it’s better to go wash up than to stand here like a fool begging to get caught for the sake of mindless contemplation. The time for forgiveness has passed—for both of us. Resolved that some things just are God’s will, I head to the bigger barn where we keep our cows. I nod at Charlotte and Agnes—two Brown Swiss retired rescue dairy cows who moo at me as I reach for the hose. First, I fill their water buckets up, then I begin to clean myself.
From my vantage point at the barn, I can see that I’ve been lucky. The bedroom is still dark. Perhaps I’ve made better use of my time than I expected to. I guess it’s a perk of being a lifelong killer. I’m really not sure. Either way, I need to get inside. Later, I’ll return to clean up the rest of the mess. For now, I need to look like I’ve been up to nothing more than reading a good book on rescue sanctuaries or funding or something. Anything that wouldn’t raise suspicion with Rancher.
I pull my own blood-covered clothes off the way I just did Virginia’s scrubs. Standing naked by the barn, I shower in water from the hose. It’s colder than a witch’s tit and likely a penance I deserve. And thou shalt be cleansed. ...Fear not what you are about to suffer. Thank the Lord for the suffering meant only to cleanse you.
When I’ve washed the sin off, I dart back to the barn where parts of Virginia rest in about two dozen pieces, and I throw my clothes on the piles of her and hers. Naked, shivering, and dripping wet, I run breathless back to the house, wiping my filthy feet first at the door.