better. But not Carl. Never Carl.
“I’m truly sorry, Carl,” she said. “Well, to be honest with you I’m not sure if I am totally sorry. But I admit that I could’ve and should’ve handled the situation better. I should have put you on your stomach and simply broken your spine.” Beth pointed to her own back, and said, “Here, just below the neck. That would’ve ensured you being a good boy. But I screwed up. Probably lost it a few times. So, it has to be this way. I hope you understand someday, although I doubt you will.”
Beth walked over to the dresser, picked up the hammer—Don’s hammer—and began smashing Carl’s right knee. He started screaming again, writhing around in agony. She worked hard, using both hands, bringing the hammer down over and over, feeling and hearing the bones and cartilage break. If she was younger, she would’ve been able to accomplish her goal quicker. Less suffering for Carl.
“I’m sorry, Carl,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Finally when the crunching stopped and it felt like she was hammering jelly, she moved to the other knee and repeated the process. By the time she was done, Carl had no knees left, only a jumble of mashed cartilage and bone fragments held in place by broken flesh. The skin was plum-purple and swelling, as if being pumped with air. Carl would never walk unassisted again. Maybe never walk period.
She hadn’t noticed, but sometime during her task—a very strenuous one it was—Carl had passed out. Better that way, she thought. Maybe Marcy would pay him a visit. She hadn’t thought about that—had Marcy visited him too? It didn’t matter, Carl wouldn’t have been bothered. Beth could tell that he wasn’t a man who believed in ghosts.
There was more to do before she was finished. Picking up the blood-caked hacksaw, Beth began removing Carl’s fingers, cutting them at the point where they met the hand. There would be no stubs.
The fingers were harder to get through, and if Carl had been awake it might’ve been impossible, for she had to hold each one separately and saw, unlike the toes which fell off one after the other. Carl stirred a few times, seeming to come in and out of consciousness, but never did completely wake up. And by the time she was done with the other hand, Beth was exhausted, her left arm aching.
But there was still work to be done.
Beth’s stomach churned at the thought of what she had to do next. She closed her eyes and thought about Alice’s killer. She saw Jim, imagined in detail how he killed her daughter. She saw Marcy, her dead eyes staring into oblivion, skull and brain sticking to the wall like some kind of sludge. A kernel of angry heat grew in Beth’s belly. The more she thought about Alice, about Marcy, the more the anger grew. Her kindness, her tenderness for humanity, her Beth-ness, was gone, shoved somewhere deep down in her soul.
She opened her eyes.
Reaching out, she grabbed the hunting knife, the one with the serrated edge. Breathing deep, calming herself, she brought the knife to Carl’s right eye and stabbed. Just a quick, but forceful, jab. She felt the juicy sphere give. Blood and fluid leaked from the socket. The eyelid sagged inward, like a deflated beach ball. She did the same to the other eye.
When she was done, she stood, finding it hard to draw in breath. She dropped the knife to the floor, and picked up the hammer. Teeth were dangerous; they could be used to hurt and maim.
Using her right arm, the left now numb, Beth raised the hammer and let it fall to Carl’s semi-open mouth. The two front teeth broke like brittle pre-cooked noodles. She brought the hammer up again and continued to smash Carl’s mouth, knocking out teeth and pulverizing his lips, which when she was done looked like bloated, red, bleeding garden slugs.
Finished, Beth stood up, feeling as if something heavy—a piano maybe—was resting on her chest. The hammer dropped from her grasp, landing on the
“I’m truly sorry, Carl,” she said. “Well, to be honest with you I’m not sure if I am totally sorry. But I admit that I could’ve and should’ve handled the situation better. I should have put you on your stomach and simply broken your spine.” Beth pointed to her own back, and said, “Here, just below the neck. That would’ve ensured you being a good boy. But I screwed up. Probably lost it a few times. So, it has to be this way. I hope you understand someday, although I doubt you will.”
Beth walked over to the dresser, picked up the hammer—Don’s hammer—and began smashing Carl’s right knee. He started screaming again, writhing around in agony. She worked hard, using both hands, bringing the hammer down over and over, feeling and hearing the bones and cartilage break. If she was younger, she would’ve been able to accomplish her goal quicker. Less suffering for Carl.
“I’m sorry, Carl,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Finally when the crunching stopped and it felt like she was hammering jelly, she moved to the other knee and repeated the process. By the time she was done, Carl had no knees left, only a jumble of mashed cartilage and bone fragments held in place by broken flesh. The skin was plum-purple and swelling, as if being pumped with air. Carl would never walk unassisted again. Maybe never walk period.
She hadn’t noticed, but sometime during her task—a very strenuous one it was—Carl had passed out. Better that way, she thought. Maybe Marcy would pay him a visit. She hadn’t thought about that—had Marcy visited him too? It didn’t matter, Carl wouldn’t have been bothered. Beth could tell that he wasn’t a man who believed in ghosts.
There was more to do before she was finished. Picking up the blood-caked hacksaw, Beth began removing Carl’s fingers, cutting them at the point where they met the hand. There would be no stubs.
The fingers were harder to get through, and if Carl had been awake it might’ve been impossible, for she had to hold each one separately and saw, unlike the toes which fell off one after the other. Carl stirred a few times, seeming to come in and out of consciousness, but never did completely wake up. And by the time she was done with the other hand, Beth was exhausted, her left arm aching.
But there was still work to be done.
Beth’s stomach churned at the thought of what she had to do next. She closed her eyes and thought about Alice’s killer. She saw Jim, imagined in detail how he killed her daughter. She saw Marcy, her dead eyes staring into oblivion, skull and brain sticking to the wall like some kind of sludge. A kernel of angry heat grew in Beth’s belly. The more she thought about Alice, about Marcy, the more the anger grew. Her kindness, her tenderness for humanity, her Beth-ness, was gone, shoved somewhere deep down in her soul.
She opened her eyes.
Reaching out, she grabbed the hunting knife, the one with the serrated edge. Breathing deep, calming herself, she brought the knife to Carl’s right eye and stabbed. Just a quick, but forceful, jab. She felt the juicy sphere give. Blood and fluid leaked from the socket. The eyelid sagged inward, like a deflated beach ball. She did the same to the other eye.
When she was done, she stood, finding it hard to draw in breath. She dropped the knife to the floor, and picked up the hammer. Teeth were dangerous; they could be used to hurt and maim.
Using her right arm, the left now numb, Beth raised the hammer and let it fall to Carl’s semi-open mouth. The two front teeth broke like brittle pre-cooked noodles. She brought the hammer up again and continued to smash Carl’s mouth, knocking out teeth and pulverizing his lips, which when she was done looked like bloated, red, bleeding garden slugs.
Finished, Beth stood up, feeling as if something heavy—a piano maybe—was resting on her chest. The hammer dropped from her grasp, landing on the
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