Swedenborg 18

He crouched in the alley behind the dumpster.

His breathing was fast. His heart racing.

He was crying.

Quietly. So they wouldn’t hear.

The man and the woman had come into the alley and passed where he had been hiding, planning.

In the shadows.

He listened. The man was saying all sorts of foul things to the woman. About the woman.

 

She was silent.

 

Why, he wondered. Why didn't she fight back?

 

He hated the man.

To treat a woman like that.

Only evil men did that.

Men like him.

He bit his fist.

Like me.

He suddenly wanted to rush over to the. To hit the man. To tell the woman to hit the man.

 

Why didn't she fight back? What was wrong with her?

 

Then it struck him.

 

Maybe she knew she deserved it.

 

Then the anger.

That evil man and that vile woman both deserved it.

 

He had never taken two at the same times. And no man since the war.

 

Why not now?

Two for one.

Yes.

No.

And suddenly the man slapped the woman.

 

He snarled something, and then hurried out of the alley, looking carefully, as if he did not want to be seen.

I saw you, he said.

The woman  remained in the shadows, crying, trying to stop crying, stifling sobs. She sniffed. She took a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

 

 She then took out a cigarette, lit it, took a long drag, and blew out smoke that rose into the glow from the streetlight.

 

You did deserve it, whore. Filthy whore.

The words burned white and hot in his mind.

She took another drag, exhaled, then cast the cigarette away.

 

She started back out of the alley.

He stepped out as she passed him.

She turned at the sound.

“Who …?”

Before she could say anything more, he clamped his hand over her mouth and got behind her.

She bit. Startled, he almost released her.

But the rage took over. He kneed her in the lower back. As she started falling backwards, she reached backwards with her hands, flailing wildly.

One of the hands caught his cheek and she savagely scratched him.

He plunged the knife into her side.

She jerked, twisted, but he held tight, and stabbed again. And a again. And …

He lost count. He kept stabbing until she no longer moved.

His arm was wet with blood.

He released her, felt his cheek.

It burned.

He dragged her body further back into the alley, set her on her back and  got out the cleaver.

One chop.

Then arranged her hands.

There might be traces of him under the nails.

Two chops.

He placed the hands in a bag.

Then he held up the head into the light from the street. 

There was a scar on the left cheek, running from below the eye to the chin.

He swore.

Not for his collection.

Worthy only of the refuse pile.

With the other imperfect trophies.

Pax et bonum