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Mercy Killing --
Part 4
by Cynthia Piromalli
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Okay, let's recap like they say in the cricket. My mother was killed, my brother-in-law did it (unless you ask the cops), and now it's payback time.
The morning I planned to put my plan into action I woke up earlier than I ever had in my life I think. It was around five thirty. Chris was already up when I arrived at her place. She opened the door cautiously (I guess she was freaked out that it might have been Robert coming home early from his night job), and when I stepped inside the house she stuck her head outside the door to see if anyone had been following me. Read inconspicuous or what? She obviously hadn't been able to get any sleep the previous night. Her face was dead pale and she was even jumpier than usual. I guess I don't blame her. My night was pretty uneasy too, but she had to try and sleep in a house where a planned murder was going to take place the next day. Pretty freaky.
The house was damn cold, and I was glad I'd worn my thick jumper which had become something of a favourite or, as I considered, 'lucky'. Yeah, some luck! The chill seemed to set the scene for our intended activities though.
We walked silently into the kitchen, one of those lovely cracked bench top and lifting lino deals, and I sat at the old green formica topped table as she poured me a cup of coffee. That was basically procedure whenever I visited her, but today it felt different, as did walking, breathing and talking. We had a bit of small, empty talk for a while. Stuff like "how was work" and "did you catch the movie on television last night", garbage like that.
Then the conversation shifted.
"Did you bring the gun?"
By this time she was more anxious and more hooked onto the idea than I think I ever was. I gave her a sort of weird look. She noticed it, then she launched into her soliloquy.
"I have to get out of this, I can't bear it anymore. It has to end, and it has to end today. It never really hit me how miserable I was until ..." she stroked her growing belly, "this."
She stood and began to pace around the kitchen. I hate it when people do that. My eyes followed her, my hands folded in my lap, and I tried not to let her make me feel more nervous than I already was.
"I wish the damn things would die inside of me and take me with them. I'm passing my unhappiness on to them. They'll be very sick children. As sick as I feel. As sick as Robert."
Here she became very emotional. Her sobs broke out load and guttural. She looked as though she might collapse so I stood to help her, but she balanced herself on the sink before I reached her. She put out a hand to signal me not to bother. Obediently, I sat down again.
"I'm okay," she was silent for a minute then started again, "I'm okay. I have to be okay. This has to end before I end up killing myself. It just has to end."
She turned to me and smiled a weak smile that showed more strength in her than I have ever seen. She was desperate. If I had kept this idea to myself for a little while longer, she would sure as hell have come up with it herself.
It was silent for some time. Then Chris spoke again.
"Are you regretting this so far?"
"No."
"Do you still want to go ahead with it?"
"Yes."
As if those answers weren't straight forward enough, she sat down beside me, took my hands out of my lap and held them with a firm grip.
"I need to know, I can't turn back now. I don't know if you meant to but you've convinced me that this is how it has to be done. I need you here, please don't back out on me now."
I told her that I wouldn't. It had been my idea in the first place for Christ's sake! And I was going to be the one firing the gun to protect Chris in case we were caught - my life wasn't worth anything anyway. But I had a feeling that, if I had backed out, she would've given herself a crash course in firearms and done it herself. But it was us now; not just me, not just her - us. The way it should've been a long time ago.
We had about an hour before Robert was due home.
I lit a pre-kill cigarette.
© Cynthia M. Piromalli 2002
©2002 StoriesByEmail.com
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