Weird Shorts | Page 5

did name your accomplice," she said to him without meeting his eyes. "Will you tell me now so we can get him off the streets, prevent more killings?"
"You don't want to know," he said, his expression sullen.
"Of course I do."
He just glared at her a moment, then turned his face away and said nothing.
Caren looked at her parents. They grasped each other's hands tightly and gazed stolidly down at their laps.
"You always could get him to admit anything," she said to them, a slight bitterness tinging her voice. "Make him tell me now who helped him."
Neither her, mother nor her father acknowledged her demand.
"Come on," she said, angry now. "You were always closer to him than to me. You can persuade him to answer, if you only will."
At this, her mother looked up, her expression one Caren had never seen before and one she did not understand.
"Who was your accomplice, Terry?"
Mother and son stared at each other, neither moving a muscle. Then Caren noticed that her father had lifted his gaze to her brother's face also, his enigmatic expression mirroring his wife's.
Father, Mother, and son appeared to agree upon a decision. In a single surreal movement, their heads turned toward Caren.
An all-too-familiar feeling of exclusion pierced her heart as an ethereal Caren watched herself in horror.
The physical Caren blurted her eternal question, "Why choose him and not me?"
She saw hope dawn in her parents' eyes as desire and revulsion warred on her own face and in her own soul.
MAKING IT RIGHT
Melinda sat on the edge of her cot in the basement, the only place she felt safe. She had just awakened from another nightmare -- one about the killer -- the only kind of dream she had anymore. In fact, it was the only thing she thought about anymore.
Once again the memories rolled over her while she rubbed her temples helplessly: the killer smirking as all of them were forced to watch his abominable videos over and over again; the prosecutor waving the knife still crusted with blood from three of the killer's victims; the endless nights in the hotel where she and the other jurors had been sequestered; the deaf ear of the judge when they all complained about their intolerable mental anguish.
That last torture was the worst. Not only was it impossible for them to seek help on their own for the indelible images and empathy they endured, but also the judge would not permit the jurors to discuss the trial amongst themselves until it was over. And he wouldn't grant their request for a psychologist or even a priest to ease their unbearable emotional and spiritual agony.
Melinda shook her head as if to quell the roiling thoughts, but it was no use. The faces of victim after victim lurched toward her in a never-ending line whether she was awake or asleep.
I have to do it, she said to herself. She looked at the vulnerable flesh of her wrist --- so easy to cut, to damage; so easy to eradicate her unbearable psychic pain.
She stood and walked to the far corner of the basement room. There on the table was a knife. She picked it up and tested the edge on her thumbnail. It was wonderfully sharp.
As she stood beside the table, her resolve faltered when she thought of the ugly mess she would leave for others to find, but that little waver prompted another surge of hideous memories, and she fought the tide with new determination to continue --- now -- to the inevitable end.
The walk to the little bathroom with its tiny tub seemed to take eons, but each step brought clearer thoughts and a unity of purpose. She was euphoric by the time she stood with her bare toes touching the side of the bathtub. She laid the knife on the floor, set the plug, and turned on the hot water.
Now what was the killer's first ritual? Melinda asked herself as she looked at the trussed figure in the tub.
THE OLD BLACK DUDE
The old black dude came every Thursday morning right around 7:30 whether the Hales were home or off on another of their extended cross-country tours in their hedonistically large motor home. Sometimes he woke her if she slept late, his weed-eater doing a better job of edging the lawn than her father's old circular-blade edger had ever done -- faster, too. Then he mowed the lawn with an industrial-sized mower, calmly and methodically walking back and forth, leaving faintly visible rows, each one perfectly straight. Finally, he used his leaf blower to clear the sidewalk and driveway of clippings, patiently pursuing the last tiny blades of grass, leaving the property immaculate.
He always wore overalls and long-sleeved shirt, boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He parked his pickup and trailer right out front, never