So that night, when the short and long hands eclipsed, Patricia promised herself to do some snooping around. Not only to figure out what was up between her Uncle and his wife, but also to figure out how t’was like between couples when it’s up. Call it youthful exuberance, or curiosity, the kind that killed the cat everyone talks about.
So, she tiptoed that Monday night, up the stairs, and landed on her summit at the guest room door. She was hoping to hear noises. Noises of Uncle Pat being haunted by that mysterious being and also other kind of noises, couple noises.
‘What could they be doing in there, and why’s it so silent?’ she thought. Could her hands be in his pants as she sometimes saw on TV? Couples do that when they’re not in the mood for sex. ‘Shut up!’ she yelled in her mind, ‘you shouldn’t be thinking that, your mind isn’t ready for that.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be thinking that?’ her other mind questioned, ‘Because the so-called adults told me so. Sex is sacred blah blah blah? It’s even yucky. I mean, why would humans want to get into their dirtiest parts so bad? Humanity is indeed fucked up. Shh! You shouldn’t say the f word.’
Patricia soon snapped back into reality, and still she heard nothing from the door of the guest room. What was she hoping to hear?
Aunt Lucy: I’m the demon in your nightmares, I’m the devil in your afterlife.
Uncle Pat: Please don’t hurt me, I’m eternally sorry for hitting you.
Aunt lucy: Are you? But I can’t see any repentance. You’re still a monster inside, and you will suffer in my hell. You will pay for all the torture you put me through. You will suffer a millions times over. You will beg for mercy. No, you will beg for death. You will–
‘Okay, focus!’ she yelled in her brain. ‘Nothing is obviously going on in there. Just go downstairs and sleep.’
So Patricia turned back slowly and continued her creeping session.
“What are you looking for?” said a voice from behind.
Patricia peed her pants. Then she thought of washing later in the morning. Then she peed again. ‘I’m done for’ was all that the tiny neurons in her brain could comprehend.
It was Aunt Lucy’s voice.
“Uh.. I just– uh.. you know, I was–”
Pathetic. She was obviously searching for words, just the way writers search for words when the juice is out.
“It’s okay honey, go to bed now. We’d talk later in the morning,” Aunt Lucy said.
Patricia was eased, although it was ironical given the fact that she just eased on herself. Something bothered her mind though, she hoped Aunt Lucy wouldn’t make mention of their encounter the next day to Mum or Dad.
‘But what did she mean by “We’d talk later in the morning”?’
For some reason, those last words felt so good to Patricia. What were they going to talk about? Would they plan together on how to torture her monster wife-beating husband together? Would she be the perfect apprentice to the witch, like a mother-and-daughter relationship?
Patricia slept that night with these laden thoughts in her mind. She even had a nightmare; her boyfriend cheated on her.
“How could you do this to me?” she said.
“Patricia… I mean, you’re kind of weird, you weirded me out. What was I suppose to do? You never talk teenage stuff, you always want to be smart and it’s kinda boring.”
“I’m smart, dummy, not wanting to be smart. If only your cheating ass neurons could move a tad faster then you will understand what smartness is. How did we even fall in love? Now I’m going to be fucking heartbroken.”
A knife was in the pocket of her jeans. How it got there is the stuff of dreams. Nobody knows how anything gets anywhere in dreams, we just know that when we need something it comes around.
Patricia drew the knife from its scabbard and plunged it into his chest.
“What are they fuck are you doing, Patricia? You’re mad! You’ve gone mad!” Thomas, her about-to-be-killed boyfriend, yelled in apparent pain.
“You broke my heart, Thomas, and now I’m going to break yours, literally,” she sobbed with a hint of a chuckle.
She held the knife in his chest and used her other palm to jerk it in.
She tore into his chest. Saliva, reddish, began bubbling from the side of his clenched lips. He tried to muffle something Patricia couldn’t get.
The knife in his chest made her feel so good she was actually scared in real life. But even though she knew she was dreaming, she still felt heartbroken and didn’t stop there.
She juiced his heart so that he felt the last pain of his life, and he fell to the ground just the way logs used to fall off the back of prehistoric fathers that arrived their huts. Those days when cutting down a tree into chunks meant a man was responsible and his wife would let him… you know, later that night.
Patricia almost woke up with a scream, but Georgina was there and she mustn’t know even beings like Patricia were capable of having nightmares. She picked up her voice teleportation device and rang Thomas.
“Hello, babe, what’s up?”
“Thomas, I want you to promise me that you’d never cheat on me.”
The poor boy felt like his future self where his wife would wake him up in an unholy hour and make him promise something totally unrelated to their lives.
“Uh… Patricia? Where’s this coming from?”
“Just promise, Thomas.”
He obviously wasn’t ready for that level of drama.
“Uh… I promise.”
“Why did you say ‘Uh…’?”
Thomas felt like being swallowed by the ground. What the hell was she on about? He kept silent.
“Thomas, are you already cheating on me?”
For a moment Thomas wondered where all of Patricia’s smarts evaporated to. This was the same girl always talking technical stuff and now she’s all ‘promise me this promise me that’. He couldn’t deal.
“Look, babe, I’m not cheating on you, okay?” he said briskly.
“I believe you, honey.”
That was the first time she called him honey, well, not exactly the first, but the sweetest first. Thomas felt like a man again.
When Patricia was done with her call, she headed for the guest room. At least it was broad daylight now, and she was, of course, welcome into the room. But she didn’t go for a welcome, she went for the “We’d talk later in the morning”.
Victor is an Engineer and a Writer (horror). He’s open to all kinds and types of freelance jobs (he has a day job, but he’d squeeze time for this. Such is his passion for the craft). If you want him featured on your blog or paper or magazine or any material or mode of self-expression, then hit him via firstname.lastname@example.org, and let it hurt!