Saturday's Storyteller: "She wasn't supposed to die, just to suffer immensely."

by Belinda Roddie

She wasn't supposed to die, just to suffer immensely. And yet, there she was, eyes half-open and glazed with the last of the blood and tears. She was dead. Very, very dead.

Becca didn't bother to clean up, or even move the body. She simply pulled the reddened latex gloves off her hands, slipped the scalpel back into its pouch on her belt, and walked out. She made sure that her boots did not leave a single print on the messy linoleum.

The walk back to her apartment was slow and cold - June was not promising summer fun just yet. Becca tossed the gloves into the large dumpster beside her driveway, pulling the collar of her coat tightly against her throat. It felt like December, even though six months had passed. She half-expected to see snow fall or Christmas trees light up in windows.

Winter had never quite left her mentally.

She hadn't meant to die. But she had fought too much. Moved too much, wriggled too much. Becca had meant to aim for less significant articles. She had wanted her to choke on her blood, but not lose too much of it. She wanted to torment her, not end her. She didn't deserve death. Death was too sweet, like a mother holding a child after he receives an injury while playing. Planting kisses on the corpse's wet cheeks.

Becca stumbled into her living room and found the couch. Then she remembered the weapon and gingerly hid it under the sink, in a secluded place beside the dishwasher detergent and the towel rack. Finding a glass, she poured herself a medicinal dose of water and returned to the sofa, determined to watch TV.

The local news was on. A murder was being reported already. A different one, of course. A ten-year-old boy had been walking alone at night and had been shot by a driver in a passing minivan. Authorities just couldn't understand why he had been a target. Family relations? Gang connections? Mule roles? It didn't matter. He was the headline of the eleven o'clock circus. Not her.

Becca had let her slip away too quickly. Her, who had left the scars on her arms so many years ago. Her, who had claimed love but felt none of it. Her, who had finally wept when threatened with pain, as if she had never ever felt it or noticed it before. Becca had wanted her to suffer more than she had. She had killed her instead.

And she hated herself for it.

This week's prompt was provided by Kyle Oathout.