Weird Shorts | Page 5

desires bubbled up, no
sublimated hatreds overwhelmed her -- only the blighted loneliness of
an unpopular student, a neglected daughter.
Still, what was normal for a child? Did every kid become as angry as
she had over stupid arguments, slights, unkind acts? Was her anger
irrational, overwrought, or, worse yet, cold?
She questioned her motives in pursuing a law degree and fighting for a
job in the DA's office. Was she running from pernicious inclinations,
combating the evil in herself by attacking it in others? Had she savored
kindred feelings as she poured over the case files of vicious killers,
those so like her brother? Was the thrill she'd felt titillation disguised as
horror, or was it true abhorrence? No answers, no answers.
Now her adored brother was in the last hours of his deathwatch, only a
few more moments before the guards would say she must leave,
abandon him to his fate. Caren felt unable to even look at him but knew
she must do what she could to prevent further harm, further ruin.
"You never 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