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Amy

Part IV

by Egbert Wikitiki

November 2010

When I became aware of my surroundings, I found myself standing before my bathroom mirror, wiping blood from my knife with my thoroughly stained flannel shirt.  Still dazed and half-conscious, I climbed into the shower, removed the rest of my clothes and turned on the water, as hot as I could stand it.

Memories of what I had done tried to surface as the hot water sluiced the sticky blood from my body, but I forced them down, buried them, and pushed them into the darkest cobweb-infested corners of my brain for the moment.  I had matters to which I must attend before I could allow guilt to debilitate me.

Once dried and re-dressed, I removed the soiled clothes from the shower and—along with the now nearly rigid shirt caked with coagulated blood—stuffed them all into a large Hefty bag.  I dropped the Buck Knife into the bag as well, then tied the top in a tight knot and placed it near the front door, where the police would find it easily.

They’d give me the needle for what I had done, or at the very least lock me up for the rest of my life.  Neither of these options appealed to me.

I had a plan of my own.

The shower had cleared my head somewhat while cleansing my body, so I allowed the unwanted memories to resurface and in seconds found myself reduced to bitter, shameful tears.

Everyone had always said that I was a nice guy: my mom, my sisters, my coworkers, and my friends.  The few women with whom I had had relationships insisted that I was the kindest, most generous and thoughtful man they had ever known (yet all three had broken up with me, for some mystifying reason).  All my life I had received this kind of praise, so much that, over the years, I had come to believe it myself.

Nice guys don’t murder innocent women; hell, they don’t murder guilty women!

But the thing I had killed could hardly be called a woman, at least not when I killed it.  I don’t know what the hell it was, but it couldn’t have been human.

A random memory—not at all associated with my recent maniacal act—surfaced and insisted on scrutiny:

Terry, Wendy and Barbara, the three women I had loved (other than Mom and my sisters) had all insisted that I keep my relationship with them secret from everyone else, including family members.  They never explained the reasons for this confidentiality, but each woman had been adamant about my compliance.

No, wait.  That wasn’t right.

I had to chew through a film of mercurial gauze (metaphorically, of course) to find the truth, but after a minute of mental mastication I remembered things for what they really were.

The girls hadn’t insisted I keep the relationships secret; it had been my idea.

Why? 

All three were terrific women, attractive, intelligent, caring and generous…  They were all women I should have been proud to show off to my friends and family.

Why had I insisted that they conceal their relationships with me?

When no answers presented themselves, I went about completing my preparations. 

First, I went to the coffee table in the living room, where I kept a spiral-bound notebook in which I sometimes jotted down insights that occasionally occurred to me.  Tearing a blank page from the book, I quickly wrote down an explanation for what I had done, an apology to Amy’s family and friends, as well as another addressed to my own family and signed the confession.

I had always been afraid of the sight of blood—well, my own blood, at least—so I never considered the razor blades in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.  I owned no guns and had no knowledge of household poisons, but I did have a rope.

After tying a noose, I began cinching it to a support beam in the ceiling when another flash of insight (actually, another memory) pushed its way to the forefront of my mind.

Terry, Wendy and Barbara….

I had no difficulty picturing all their faces, each of them smiling warmly, puckering to kiss me.

Then I saw all three faces twisted by fear and pain.

Terry, Wendy and Barbara….

I saw their mouths open to utter screams of terror, but not a sound left their lips, because… because….

Because you wouldn’t let them scream.

I saw hands curled tightly around their throats, choking their shrieks.

Because you killed them.

No.

Yes.  You strangled them, and as they choked, you stabbed them.  Remember your other knives?

I did remember the other knives.  For quite some time, I had carried on a tradition of buying a new Buck knife for myself every Christmas.  But I couldn’t remember why.  What had happened to the other knives?

You know.

No, I didn’t.  At least, I tried to convince myself that I didn’t.

I stumbled off the footstool before I could get the noose around my neck and fell to the floor, curled into a fetal position and slammed my fists against my head, trying my damnedest to stop the voices, shut them up, stop the flow of unwanted images, cease the endless flow of memories.

Dark spots appeared before my eyes and swirled and a shrill whine whistled between my ears, blocking all other sounds, all encompassing and nauseating.

The world went dark.

*          *          *

I woke sometime after midnight, curled on the floor of my living room.  I thought hard trying to recall how I had wound up on the floor instead of in my bed.  If I didn’t move myself, I would be mighty sore in the morning and work would be made all the more difficult.

I did not recollect having dropped Amy off at her home, though I did remember the hot, steamy sex.  That was the best orgasm I’d had in a long time.

Or was it?  Suddenly, I was not so sure.  In fact, as I thought about it I began to remember a sense of panic accompanying the act of release.

Why would that have scared me?  It made no sense.

Rolling onto my back, I saw a rope hanging down from the ceiling.

How did that get there? I wondered.  Could someone have broken in while I was out and tied the noose to the ceiling beam?  Was that someone’s idea of a joke?

I pulled myself up to my feet with the footstool, and then wondered why it was there in the living room when it should be in the kitchen.  Then it occurred to me that whoever had cinched the rope to the beam must have used the stool to accomplish the act.

As I bent over to pick up the stool so I wouldn’t trip over it later, I saw a black bundle situated near the front door.

But I didn’t have to wonder what was in the bag. 

I knew already.

Memories of the wretched events of the night suddenly flooded back into my mind, along with the guilt.

I remembered Amy, what I had done to her, why I had tied the noose to the ceiling beam; I also remembered Terry, Wendy and Barbara, and what I had done to them.

And there were others.

Many others.

I also remembered falling to the floor and striking myself.  I had fallen asleep.  Then I had forgotten all the horrible things I had done.

I could not let that happen again.

If I could not successfully kill myself, then they should lock me up in prison, or even a mental institution.  Someone had to remove me from the public for everyone’s safety.

One of my sisters could be my next victim, and I could not contemplate living with that kind of remorse.

I still planned to commit suicide; my death would benefit society better than my incarceration would.  However, I had to have a backup plan, just in case I blacked out again.

The next time, I might not remember what I had done at all.

I raced into the kitchen, to the phone hanging on the wall.  A bookshelf beside the phone contained several cookbooks (I had always prided myself on my culinary skills and showed them off at every opportunity).  It also held the local phone directory, normally.  But the book was not where it should have been.

Then I saw it lying on the counter by the sink, already open.  I hurried over to the book, afraid I might black out at any moment.  Before I could flip over to the local government listings to look up the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department, a red circle caught my eye.

Someone had circled a name and phone number in crimson ink, the color of blood.

The name was Amy Milford.

The room started to spin, filled with spectral flies that swarmed to a high-pitched wail and the world went black.

*          *          *

Bill Gerhardt’s the name.  I’m just a horny old fart who works for a private sanitation department.  Of course, I don’t get much action being a garbage man, but that’s why God created right hands.

Thursdays are a drag: that’s Puyallup Day, which means work, work, and more work.  I don’t think a single person in Puyallup dumps they’re own garbage, including me, the lazy bastards.

“Man, you look like the cat that ate the canary,” said John Tuttle, my partner.  We drove east on Highway 512, Puyallup-bound.  “You get laid or something?”

“Huh?  Me?”  I said.  John knew full well that it had been a long stretch since I had had sex with anything other than the aforementioned hand.  Hell, I couldn’t even remember the last time.  “I’m just in a good mood today, I guess.”

John chuckled.  “Yeah, I guess that happens from time to time—but it’s been months since I’ve seen you this happy.  Are you taking happy-pills?”

“Happy-pills,” I laughed.  “It’s just like you to be suspicious of a good mood.  Isn’t it enough just to be alive, living in one of the greatest places on Earth and employed in one of the finest jobs mankind has to offer?”

That made John laugh harder.  “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

We got off the freeway at the State Fairgrounds exit and then headed north.  I noticed the time, six o’clock, and informed John.  He never missed the morning news.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, clicking the radio on.  He always left it tuned to KIRO.

“Today’s top story: It appears that the Oak Valley Slasher struck again last night, this time in the quiet, residential neighborhood of Spanaway.  The as-yet-unidentified victim was found in the men’s room of Lake Spanaway….”

John and I exchanged worried looks; he lived a stone’s-throw from the lake, and I visited the place often to fish.

“Details are still sketchy.  The police have only released limited information so far, but we have learned that the victim was a woman approximately thirty-five years old and that she, like the other victims, appeared to have been sexually assaulted prior to the murder—”

Click!   John nearly twisted the dial off the radio.  He had heard enough, and so had I.  “Great,” he said in a low, menacing voice.  “Just friggin’ great.  It’s been… what?  Three months?  I was hoping the bastard had killed himself.”

I nodded.  I couldn’t agree more.  “Man, a guy like that…  They shouldn’t even lock him up when they catch him,” I said.  “What they should do is have a public stoning—or knifing!  Let’s see how he likes it!” 

I was steamed, my good mood forgotten.  It has always boggled my mind how some perverts can get their kicks out of torturing, raping and killing women.  It’s inhuman.

The bastard must be crazy.