Chapter 25 - the Endgame III
As strange as my life had become, things were about as good as I could have ever imagined. We grew closer. This, was a disruption in my earlier plans. Originally, if I had to, if there was no other way. I always had my emergency move in reserve. I could about always? Simply trade my life, to take his. Raving nut-balls get away with it, so I can't imagine that with my intelligence, cunning, planning, patience? I wouldn't succeed. The whack job that put a 22 into Ronald Reagan? It flattened out on his rib it hit, to the thickness of a dime. Had the rib not stopped it? The wound track led directly to Reagan's heart.
Had the whack job, hearing voices and was clearly in a somewhat advanced state of derangement? Simply used an even remotely decent enough caliber of gun for the job? Reagan's vice president would have been needed to lead the country, to finish that term out.
I wouldn't make that mistake. I know of a little gun? That literally breaks the hand of the person foolish enough to attempt to shoot it. I have a group of buddies I grew up with, and they got into hunting and target shooting. One guy? Has money and ended up with a weird acquisition.
We've all heard the stories, and from other people as well. Its true. Some gun manufacturer, either does, or once did... make a 45-70 derringer. Now. If you don't know what a 45-70 is, referring to a gun caliber? Ask anyone who knows even the slightest bit. Or, just go look at one and hold it in your hand. Its a big round.
This is a big 45 caliber straight wall rifle round? That was once a top dog in the big rifle game. Even in today's world, of some big fast calibers? Its no slouch. Modern rifles, of proper construction. For example a well made modern bolt gun hunting rifle? Full house loads can be uncomfortable to shoot. The size of the caliber, and the overall weight of the gun its fired in, determines recoil.
So, a huge rifle round. Shot out of the tiniest little handgun possible, a derringer. Its not meant to aim, or shoot regularly. Hikers and hunters buy this huge derringer caliber? As a backup. A last ditch effort, if you're dead anyways. Bear repellent. If the bear is on you, you got this big derringer to put under the chin, and try it. Or hand in the bear's mouth, and you pull the trigger.
Because at that point? The broken hand and/or wrist? Is of no concern. I get one shot, out of nowhere close by in a crowd? I ain't crazy. I'm making that one shot really count. You get hit from feet away with a 45-70? When you only have one shot, that's making that one shot, really count. With a gun so small, its not like you're dragging an arm over a hog leg under your shoulder.
With her in my life now, with me in hers? That's off the table now. Oh, he's going to die no matter how long I have to wait, or I'll die having been planning it. But the backup plan is gone. No more mercy killing for myself doing it, no more easy way out to solve that problem.
Just like she forced me to begin to have physical intimacy again, and forced me to get back into having sex? She's now unknowingly forcing me again. No easy way out now. I have to preserve my life, if I can. No more easy backup plan, it has to be a well crafted plan now.
Well, that's just fine. I enjoy puzzles.
Ask anyone that ever had me working on a computer for them. Ask anyone that sees me do all the puzzles and crosswords in three different newspapers any night I go out and my bullshit buddies aren't there yet. You take the time constraints off? I'll figure out a way, eventually.
I eventually showed her my "Rain" lyrics poem deal. She sat and read it, for a while. Clearly going over it, again and again. She looked up at me, with a cocked head, and a somewhat furrowed brow. The quiet, innocent question.
"Are you over being a little suicidal now?"
I just nodded yes.
"That? Was... not that long after."
"Are you a little better now."
I shrugged.
"I'm over that point. I'll live."
She read it a few times more, then back to me.
"Right after it happened, or for a while after? Yeah. I been there. Glad I didn't, now. You?"
I nodded yes.
She asked if I was on medication. I didn't specify.
"Yeah. I guess you can tell."
"Not really. How bad is it. When... if you didn't get..."
I sighed.
"Fetal position. A hot mess."
She nodded. She knew the drill. Just her eye contact alone, barring having heard her describe breakdowns? It was another been there, done that, here's the T shirt. She asked me a one word whispered question.
"If it happens. Hours?"
I looked away politely. I whispered back my one word answer.
"Days."
"Bad, I know."
I sighed.
"It feels like... I'd rather be dead."
She nodded. Goes with the territory.
"Your... medication. It can turn on you, in an instant. It happens."
I nodded.
"I have a backup medication. This one? Won the little medication contest we had up front, and... medication number two? Is ready if its needed. It never has been, but... if I would need it? Got it."
"Expensive care?"
I shook my head.
"Honestly? I have an online pharmacy. Online doctor approved of my description. Its not narcotics, so... as long as any doctor signs off on it, online pharmacy? Will send me as much as I order. Overnight, for a few extra bucks. They said 20 years ago, this medication cost an arm and a leg, but... I can get the generic equivalent today, it doesn't cost shit."
She's nodding along. No reaction, we might as well be discussing the weather.
"County therapy? Or, you have medical. Private therapy."
"Neither one."
"No care? Just medication."
"Yeah."
"Bad first therapist, huh."
"I... can only stomach so much of that... stupid hurt locker pamphlet."
"I could see that happening. Sure. You try another therapist?"
"Well, from what you describe. The rape therapy business. I just get a... they call them a counselor. Grief counselor. I'm sure it helps someone, somewhere. When grandma dies, when dad dies. But, what I went through? No. Nothing, is better than... what they were trying."
"Counselor. Therapists? Have licenses, and college degrees. And pass special courses, for special interest work. Like rape counseling. Pretty sure? Counselors, are... just getting a certification. The receptionist at the hospital? Can take a few night classes, and be the next grief counselor. So, if you felt like some dimwit, was just memorizing a few pamphlets... probably right. Lady only had to be about as bright, as... the kids that work with food? Have to get this piece of paper, they passed the food safety course. I don't need one, to be a server, or to do side dishes. But the cooks? Its a little comic book, with cartoons showing how to wash your hands, how to wear plastic gloves, what temperature things need to be kept it."
I sighed.
"Yeah. It was some older lady, and... yeah. She seemed like her job title? Was a prize in a cereal box, or she sent away and ordered her... little thing she has on display. I mean, you know how people with college degrees, always put them on display? She has this little piece of paper, framed. I'm not impressed with the field, if you can't tell."
She gave a wan little grin.
"I understand. You ever try a real therapist? County has them."
"I could. I have to be indigent, to qualify for free. Or have insurance, and its expensive. I really don't feel like... becoming one step away from broke and homeless? Just to qualify. I also don't think it helps me. To make more money, just to dump it all in medical coverage. At the highest cost because I'm going to be using it a lot. For what. So someone can read off a pamphlet to me? Try to impress me with some vocabulary words, reciting a paragraph from memory? No."
"I understand. But, if you ever get the chance, some program... try it. And, remember to try a couple therapists. Before you decide it isn't going to help."
"If I get the chance? I'll give it a whirl. But I'm not living in my car, for nothing."
She was quiet, almost apologetic sounding.
"I know its not fair. What you saw, what you went through. It was... as bad as what happened to me, or even worse in some ways. And what do you get. Some mail-order lightweight. And, any girl that whines she got drunk, and accidentally went all the way with her boyfriend? Gets to prance from therapist to therapist, finding the best one for her to whine and play victim to, for attention. All for free, and your taxes? Pay for her to waste help she really doesn't need. And you can't get it. Even though you're footing the bill, for her to get it. I understand if you're angry, or frustrated."
"Hey. It is, what it is. I'm still standing."
She nodded. She understood. When she asked, I explained how I have less work for more pay now, and I have all my hobbies and I can afford them. I can afford the money, and the time to indulge them.
I'm not lying, but it is a mental stretch. To consider well planned and executed revenge murders? To be a "hobby". I don't think of myself as some kind of inhuman monster, either. I've now taken 4 lives, in the pursuit of my cold blooded revenge. I honestly think, that I'm being really nice about the whole thing, to be perfectly honest.
I just put them down, quick. I didn't prolong their suffering. I'm fully capable, and I full well know it? That I don't have to be nice about it. I could just as well? Have spent some quality time, alone, just me and them. I resisted that urge. The last one left, the governor himself. I'm not sure that if I could manage to get some alone time, before I said goodbye for good? That I wouldn't try to take it.
My medication? Makes it even more possible. That I could go through with it. If I have to make it quick, to get him and get away with it, or as best I'm able to try to get away with it? Fine. But, given the chance... I try not to think about it. I know I could do things, like a cat chewing and playing with a mouse, instead of killing it outright.
When people say they could skin a person alive, and take their time doing it. And not care, or even enjoy it and savor it? Its just hyperbole.
I actually mean it. Literally.
She asked softly.
"Can... I ask about... her."
Big sigh from me.
"Yeah."
"She got..."
"You made me say it before, rape. So? You can say it. She was murdered."
"Can... is it torture, to..."
I knew where she was going. Probing, teasing. Gently. Seeing if the dog bit her, for inspecting the open wound. Ready to yank back, if the dog snaps.
"I can talk about it. I can take it."
"With no therapy? Christ. I don't like thinking about what would have happened to me, eventually. Without it."
"My medication. Its a very powerful antidepressant. I'm sure, with all the time you spent, in therapy and all that. You'll hear someone describe it. I got divorced, they put me on Prozac. You could tell me my house just burned to the ground, and my insurance doesn't cover it? I'd be like... oh, really? Huh."
"Its... one of the newer Prozac replacements?"
"This stuff? I'm no expert, but... seeme like my medication, makes Prozac, look like an aspirin. And, I have no choice but to have gotten used to... so yeah. You can ask. You shared, what. Intimate details. Of your trauma. If you want that back, I can."
She nodded yes.
"Is this for you? Or, you just want me to talk about it, for me. To see something."
She cocked her head at me, like when someone says something silly.
"What's the real difference. Either way? I ask, you tell."
God bless her little heart? She has no idea the fondness she just found with me. She was already there and more, but this is a newfound layer of appreciation I now have for her. That quick, hyper logical comeback. Yummy.
"She... was murdered. Simple as that, really."
"You said you were the one who found her."
"Yeah. Couple days later. Didn't make the whole thing any easier, believe me."
"Any time now, just don't answer me. If it stings, or---"
"Not at all. I'm not bragging. Yeah, go ahead. I'm a tough guy, I can take it. Being serious, though? I can't go... fetal position? Because of the medication. There's... no need, to tap dance. Trust me. Even if you got rude with me about it, asking? You won't be taking one single step in the direction, of... some of the conversations me and the police had at one time. So go on."
"How did she..."
"Stabbed to death. More than was necessary, to kill her three times over. In law enforcement? They, call it a frenzy. She was in the bathtub. When I walked in, and found her. Tub was filled up, water shut off. She was in it."
"I get the idea. Can, you describe your reaction."
"I was in the bathroom. Had my clothes off. I just got in late, and was going to take a shower. Couple hours drive. I assumed she was in bed. I didn't want to wake her up. I just ripped the shower curtains on the tub and shower back. Not even looking, and, when I turned around? There she is. No warning."
"But how did you react."
"I... can't tell you how long. I, just stood there. Like a statue. Frozen."
"Clinical shock."
"Yeah. Then, I end up down. Sitting. Staring. Again? Can't tell you how long. At some point? I lay on my side. This, could literally? Be minutes, or hours. I don't know. But, at some point? I get enough of my shit together, and I use that phrase very loosely. I can finally, just crawl and reach up and find my phone, to call 911. I remember after I hung up? I crawled over to my sweatpants, and pulled them on. Sitting on the floor, waiting. The police? Were pounding on the door, but... I'm so out of it. I don't understand what the noise beating on the door even is. I remember I'm sitting there, confused. I hear glass breaking, people yelling. That was the police and the ambulance, they had to break in. Found me in my sweatpants, sitting in a daze. On the floor."
"I guess the ambulance took you to the hospital, and---"
"No. My 911 call, reported finding her. Dead or not? They send an ambulance, in case a victim needs it. The police, sent the ambulance away. It was obvious, she was dead."
"You're in shock... and they're trying to play twenty questions, on what happened to her? My god."
I snickered.
"I'm... out of it. Police are taking turns talking to me. One says, I'm faking this bullshit, he's seen that song and dance before. They're, going back and forth firing questions at me. I can barely talk. Its... like a game."
"A game?!?!"
"Well, yeah. The one, he'd be talking. Okay, lets go over this again. Come on, wake up. Focus, buddy. Gotta stay with me here. How long was it. After you stabbed her, how long did you wait. Before you called 911. I'm in shock, I guess white as a ghost? They're trying to spoon feed me. I mean, its slick. Ask someone, how long did you wait after you killed her, before you called. If I just mumble, maybe half an hour. They can claim that was a confession. I asked him, how long after he killed her, before he dialed 911? He said about a half hour."
"Holy shit. They're allowed to, do that? That's... torture."
I shrugged.
"I pissed myself. I kept asking to go the bathroom? They said no. The bathroom's a crime scene. No, I'm not allowed to leave. The police need to talk to me. I ended up pissing myself, because I'm out of it and not allowed to leave like they are. Some cop's yelling at me for it. I got yelled at, for puking. I'm contaminating? His... scene."
She was livid, with anger.
"They can't..."
I just shrugged.
"They can. And they do. You do realize, plenty of times? The boyfriend did it. If they find me in shock, and can get me to say something? They honestly think, they're doing a great job. What if I really did it, and in shock? They can get me talking."
"Making you piss yourself, though. While torturing you like that, its... so, what. I guess you got dragged off to jail, until it got cleared up."
"No. Some lady showed up. She's just... like a wolverine. She rips these cops a new asshole, right to their face. I guess she walked in, and walked upstairs? And heard them trying their shit on me. She went ape-shit on them. And when the detective in the suit, started that whole... this is my scene, I'm in charge here, lady. She, just... they were scared of her. She said I was incompetent, I need medical attention. They said she couldn't do that, she said fuck off or shoot us. She got me to a doctor."
"That, was the lady lawyer."
"Yeah. She took care of me. Took care of that whole... mess. She took me in to have a sit down with... some judge being referee, detective, DA, like that. The shit she said to them? A fly wouldn't light on them. I never seen anything like it, someone could mother-fuck the DA, the judge, the detectives. Right to their face, like that. Making fun of them, this shit they're trying to pull. She's daring them, to try it."
"Wow."
"Then? We all got to be friends."
"What?!?!"
"Hey. The cops are under pressure. The DA is under pressure. She was... not bragging? But, she was important, out in the capitol. They're being squeezed. To do something."
"She put a stop to it."
"She did. She stopped them cold. Now that they can't just... bring me in for questioning, pretending they got leads they're following up? She forced them. To at least try to hunt for whoever actually did this. I'm on camera, on the other side of the state. At the time of the murder. Plus hours away driving. They know this? They just wanted some time to parade me around, until the press got bored and let it go."
"The cops ever come up with anything? At all?"
"A serial killer came through. They can't link it up to any others, though. They think, it had to have come from something at work. She was squeaky clean, and... they couldn't find a cobweb in her closet, much less a skeleton. Nothing found at the scene, no murder weapon."
I didn't mention the DNA partial, pulled ironically, off of the holy ring itself.
"It went cold."
I sighed.
"In investigation jargon? The detectives couldn't get traction. I'm friends with all these detectives by this point. They tried. With all their heart. Like you said. Shit happens."
She took it all in for a moment. Biting her lower lip, thinking. I waited briefly before breaking the silence.
"So. How did I do."
"At..."
"I mean, first appointment. Don't they ask you, what happened. See how much you can get out. How did I do."
She nodded yes. I guess that meant I did okay in her estimation. She spoke very quietly after that.
"I'm not... qualified. To, I just can't. Yeah, people that have been in therapy for a long time? They pick things up there, you can't help it. The vocabulary, they explain techniques and you naturally remember that, too. But, I can't tell you anything about... this."
I sighed.
"So. Do it anyways. Pretend."
"I, no."
"Its all right. Just guess. I just came to you. You? Are my therapist. What would you have done first."
"Like we did. See what you can tell me about it. You... outlined the whole thing, pretty neatly."
"What does that give you. Other than now you know what happened."
"The therapist has a heads up, and a general idea. Weeks before you get there. You're not as much telling them what happened, what the problem is? As much as they're seeing where you're at. How much of it can you describe."
She quit, but I urged her gently on.
"Go on."
"Well. They look down, see it. Ask you? Maybe, all the client can say, maybe... I was raped, and? They start crying."
"Is that a normal response, you think."
She nodded yes.
"See, if that's all the girl can say. I was raped... then the breakdown starts? Typical indication of a raw emotional wound. They can barely hint at what happened, without breaking down. Now, the therapist looks down at symptoms. Constant crying, every day. Hours at a time. They compare that, to your description. In this example? Its pretty obvious. That any hint of a memory goes through their head? Its breaking down crying time."
I nodded.
"How do you present. Without medication."
"I told you. Fetal position on the floor. Hours. Days. I can't function."
"Hmm. A therapist has to have you able to.. talk. Some crying, stopping and starting, is one thing. But... yeah. Medication, until they can sit there, and talk a little bit. So. I'd ask how you present, on medication? Silly one to ask. Like you are."
I nodded.
"Well. First appointment? You lay on the floor in the fetal position crying. Can't talk. You go and get medicated. Second appointment? You can talk now. I'd see how much you can describe, before breaking down. Which is what we just did, and... you can give an outline. Kind of the initial goal, for therapy. You can talk about it all, and not go to pieces. So, now the therapist can think about setting goals with you."
"You changed therapists. After the first one that worked, got you to that point."
She sighed.
"I did. The, goals and stuff, the way they went about it? It... no."
"So, where am I. In all this."
"You make me guess? As long as you maintain some kind of baseline, with the medication. You would be looking for the, setting goals session."
"And, what goals would you want to set for me. Your client."
"Uh. You have to jump in at this point. People come to therapy, for help. Its assumed you have some idea what you want. I don't know what I'd want for you, in the way of a goal. Other than just, a generic I want to feel better? Uh, maybe the client reports something, like... always screaming and snapping at people all day, at work. Outbursts. They were never like that before, and its a problem that could cost them their career. Controlling outbursts? Might be the goal that gets set."
I didn't really have a goal. She didn't seem to be able to come up with one, off hand.
"So. Am I a bad client, because I have no... goals. Or, are you a amateur therapist, because you can't help me set a goal."
She shrugged.
"There's no right or wrong. There's what works, and what doesn't. Maybe, setting a goal? Could, in and of itself, be the goal. Therapist and you meet one, three, five times a week. An hour at a time, trying to come up with goals."
I raised my hands and dropped them in mild fake exasperation.
"The hell would that even look like. I mean, I'm always mister practical about stuff. I don't know what else I want or need. That's why I'm here, really. This person, doesn't have any idea what to tell me to aim for, either. I now question what the hell I'm doing here. In therapy."
"No, that's fair. What do you think should be done."
"I don't know. Kinda why I'm here, right? If I knew what to do, would I not have already done it. Or, came and said. I can't do thing X. How can I do thing X."
"This might be where the... intelligence and creativity comes into the picture. A great client, self aware and intelligent and insightful? Might be able to spend hours a day, trying to come up with some strategy to figure out a goal of some kind. Or, the therapist? Might ask around, research, or try to come up with some kind of a strategy."
"I need to be a better client, not they need to be a better therapist."
"Ah. I know this one. Off by heart. The therapist will remind you. As a client? You're not just a flat tire brought in. You're a fellow human being, and you're supposed to be an active part of this process. The best therapist in the world? Can't do anything with a person that just sits there, and asks what next."
I grinned and almost chuckled.
"Therapy talk?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Yeah. After you've been around therapy for any length of time? You can about walk around, and pick out who's been in therapy and for how long."
"And that was the box standard, you have to help speech, huh?"
"Well? Yeah. There's a part two, on that one. If you're curious."
"By all means."
"Which would you think was easier to be. A veterinarian? Or, a human doctor."
"I would guess, and I would hope I was right? That human doctors, had a wee bit more schooling and degrees, than... the guy that shoves thermometers up cats and dogs asses."
"So. You think being the human doctor, would be harder to do."
"Yeah. I'm just sure I'm wrong. I am, after all? A substandard therapy client."
"Well? Let's see. A human being comes to you. Doctor, doctor. My stomach, feels like its on fire. Please help me."
"Am I supposed to... and I just love the sound of this, by the way... play doctor with you?"
She smiled and nodded.
"Well. Did, you get injured. Did, you run into something, in your stomach."
"No, doc. I didn't."
"Well. What did you eat. Anything out of the ordinary."
"Yeah. I wandered down to the barn. We're drying bunches of hot peppers. They were crunchy and dry, and I ate a bunch of the dried hot peppers."
"Gee. I think all those hot peppers, might have something to do with your tummy ache. I want you to drink lots of milk, that should help."
"Thanks, doc."
"You're welcome."
She smiled. Radiant, it spread from ear to ear. The mischievous and clever little kid came out in her. She was enjoying this demonstration.
"Very good. Now? Lets do the same thing. From the veterinarian point of view, shall we?"
"Okay."
She just sat there. When I finally got around to prodding her verbally? She made a cute little dog bark.
"Ruff!"
"This isn't fair. Your... owner talks for you. Be the owner, too."
"Hi, doc."
"Hi. What this furry little weasel here for."
"There's something wrong, doc. He's been like this all day. He was fine this morning. I let him out, like always. He came in for his noon snack, he always eats lunch with me? He's... not well. Its getting worse, too. Do something, doc."
I realized her point. I told her so.
"Ruff!"
No matter what I did, what I tried... she refused to give up the cute little doggy game. I got licked and nipped and rubbed on, I scratched her and rubbed her belly. Silly as hell, but fun. After a time at this, she started in a with a new but obviously related game.
"Ruff!"
She was on all fours. Head down, butt up in the air. Wiggling her behind at me. Cute little doggy barks. Trying to get noticed. Silly me. I thought we had established we were going to play doctor. Yet?
This works.