Page 22 of Last Breath

The need to touch myself is almost too difficult to ignore. I’ve always been told by Gran it’s a devil’s taunt to pleasure yourself. Gran of course said it should only be for a husband and wife to figure out. I’ve done it a time or two when I needed a release. After all, I’m not a complete prude. I did date in high school.

As the two continue on for quite some time, and I listen like a creepy stalker, I hear as they crest melodically. Their huffed breathing is joyous. With the two of them ending their movements with harsh grunts and growls, the noise of the straining bed stops. In a way I’m thankful. I doubt I could’ve held out from reaching into my bottoms much longer if they continued. The pain of it has become almost unbearable. As it is, I may release the tension before sleeping anyway.

As the sound of a door clicks, knocking me from my stupor, I know one or both have exited the room. Stilling my body and tightening my breaths, I listen as their footfalls cross the hall. With a light grip on the door handle, I hold it still. I know I locked it, but as I feel the person try to turn it, I still like a deer in headlights.

Thinking they’ve somehow done it wrong, a second attempt at the entry occurs. Holding it securely, I stay put.

As I hold my breath, waiting to see if they’ll return to their room, nothing is said and nothing is heard. When no one moves, and their faint shadow is noticeable from the bottom of the door, I listen intently.

I’m not afraid to be caught. I’m upset at my own cowardice as I stand here stalling the need I have.

Tapping softly on the door, shocking me away from it, he speaks up. “Joy, you’ve made the wrong choice.”

Still, I stay quiet.

Whispering close, Salem talks into the edge of the door, right where my head is resting.

“You’ll know just how wrong it was by daylight.”

Chapter 13

Joy

The night wasn’t restful. On the contrary, I was scared shitless. After their sexual calisthenics, the men were quiet and I was restless.

With my eyes constantly tracking the faint glow at the bottom of the door and the moon reflecting on my wall, my heart was pounding after Salem’s words. What am I more afraid of? My own needs and curiosities, or what they offer? My freedom.

Checking the cracked alarm clock that sits on my dresser every four minutes didn’t do much to calm my racing heart either. Eventually passing out, I’m now awake and worried. It’s morning and the house is still. The time reads seven twenty, which in itself is weird. I slept in? I never sleep in, and it’s not for lack of trying. Gran’s meds wake her like clockwork. Six thirty-three on the dot every day a“Sweetie”chimes out, leaving no rest for the wicked even on Sunday.

With the sun peeking through the blinds, I rise quietly and dress. Unlocking the bolt on my door and looking at the room across the hall, I find it wide open. Stepping in, I find the bedding neatly piled on the floor. The quilt is folded on the end, and there’s no sign of either Malachi or Salem. Did they leave in the middle of the night? I’m sure I would have heard them.

Walking down the stairs, noticing an uncharacteristic silence, I start to worry. Checking in Gran’s room, her bed is neatly folded, the chair is sitting in the corner and her record player is silent.

Approaching the kitchen, I see Salem and Gran at the table. “Good morning, Sweetie,” he says, with a devious look on his face.

Gran has her back to me, sitting awkwardly at the table. I can’t remember the last time I’d seen her sitting in a chair there. The wheelchair is set up for her comfort because the chairs are harsh on her bony frame.

Sitting in front of Salem is a plate of eggs, a piece of toast and a small glass of orange juice—more than likely the last of what we had.

“Where’s Malachi?” I ask, staying inside the doorway, not quite entering the room.

Forking a mouthful of the scrambled eggs in ketchup, he talks around it. “Just gone to grab fuel. He’ll be back shortly. I thought the three of us should have a conversation. Isn’t that right, Marjory?”

When Gran doesn’t give him a curt response, I wonder what’s going on. She’s never this quiet in the morning. When she doesn’t say an evil word against my late arrival, I step into the room. Coming close, immediately I see the knife hilt resting on the table, covered in blood.

“What did you do!” I shout.

Scrambling across the floor, moving through a slow puddle of blood that surrounds her on the floor, I see a butcher knife sticking out of her chest. It’s holding her up on the table like a flopped over marionette.

“Gran! Oh my God, Gran!”

Reaching for her shoulders, I tilt her back against the chair, finding the knife stuck deeply in her sternum. Pulling it free, the momentum of the pull causes me to fall back. As I slip in blood that’s congealed on the floor, I land on my ass, hard, with the knife in my grip as I stare at Salem. “Why? Why did you kill her?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I didn’t. She did it. I only told her where to put the blade.”

With tears threatening my eyes, I try to rise off the floor, which is harder than it looks. Forking another mouthful of eggs into his mouth, acting as if nothing is amiss, Salem dips them and continues on as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

Rounding on him with the knife still held tightly in my grip, I scream, “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you? Sitting there, eating as if someone didn’t just die! As if you didn’t help it happen!”

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