Apartment 7C by David Bernstein

hacksaw. “Hack…saw,” she said, admiring the tool. “Hatchets hack. Saws saw. Why do you think it’s called a hacksaw, Carl?”
    Carl continued to scream.
    Beth leaned against the bed and grabbed Carl’s right foot, securing it. Then placing the saw against his big toe, she began to cut. Blood gushed, making the foot slippery, but she managed to hold it steady as Carl bucked and kicked. Beth had no doubt that if the man wasn’t securely tied down he would’ve thrown her across the room. The toes came away easily: some winding up on the bed while others scattered onto the floor. Carl would never walk properly again.
    Beth got up, her apron covered in crimson, and started for the other side of the bed. Carl, between cries and screams, was begging her to stop. “Mo, mo, mo,” he said as she made her way to the other foot. “Ease. Mo more.”
    Beth grabbed a hold of his other foot and off came the rest of the piggies. One by quick one they fell while Carl screamed his brains out.
    When she was done with the toes, Beth stood. She looked down at herself, then went over to the dresser with the mirror. She was covered from head to toe in Carl’s blood.
    Carl was now whimpering, breathing heavily through semi-clogged nostrils.
    Beth continued to stare at the woman in the mirror. She didn’t recognize her. She’d been numb until now. She turned to look at Carl and saw his eyes. They were red, glassy and pleading. Something clicked in Beth then. It was her humanity. Somehow the look in Carl’s eyes had brought a piece of the “good” in her out. She’d buried it, hoping to keep it so until she was done with her deeds. Done with Carl.
    Beth ran to the bathroom and heaved her guts out and into the commode like some underage teen that had drank too much. The toilet’s rim was filthy with pubic hairs and dotted with dry piss, but Beth didn’t care, and hugged the porcelain shrine.
    Finished, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and sat against the wall, breathing heavy.
    Realizing she couldn’t remain there, she slowly got to her feet and shuffled to the sink. She turned the cold-water knob, allowing chilled water to cascade over her hands. She bent over the sink, cupping handfuls of water and drinking it down. She splashed her face a few times, the frigid water like a slap to the face.
    Turning the water off, her face dripping, Beth straightened up to look in the mirror.
    She gasped at the sight before her, the sight where her reflection should’ve been, but was not. Instead she saw Alice and Marcy, bruised and beaten, as they had been at the time of their deaths.
    “You’re almost done,” Alice said.
    “You just have to make sure Carl can’t hurt anyone anymore,” Marcy said.
    Beth started to cry, and through sobs she told the ghostly reflections that she didn’t think she could do anymore.
    “You must stop him,” Alice demanded. “We’ll help. We’ll be there with you, guiding you, giving you the strength you need. Now go.”
    Beth bent down and dry-heaved into the sink. When she was done she felt different, cold, like a switch had been flipped. She stopped crying and stood up, looking into the mirror. She saw only her own reflection.
    She looked into her double’s eyes, and for a second, she thought she saw Alice’s baby blues. She blinked and they were her own brown eyes again. Beth smiled, knowing Alice was with her now.
    She walked back into the bedroom. Carl, bruised and bloodied, met her eyes. There was fear in them, but also anger. She imagined that no matter what she did to him, he’d always be angry, and that was why she needed to make sure he couldn’t hurt any more people. Looking at him, she saw the fear disappearing and the hate for Beth growing. Even after all that she’d done to him, he wanted to hurt her. To kill her. She supposed someone else in his situation might just wish to be released, be thankful they were still alive. Maybe change something about themselves. Strive to be