Page 14 of Last Seen
She didn’t let the heartbreak start then. She was too fired up, fury taking root in her soul. She thought briefly about getting the gun from its locked safe in the garage, but it was too far away.
She marched back into the kitchen and wentto the knife block.
Note: Ellie has a small issue with anger. Overwhelming anger. Anger that drives people to do horrific things, like murdering people.
The knife shone in her hand, the ten-inch French-honed blade singing a siren song. It felt right in her hand. Trusted. Good.
Greg came running out of the bedroom as she turned to go back in. He saw the knife and started backing up.
“Ellie, no. No!”
The knife slashed. It caught his forearm, and bright blood spewed across the bedroom door. She slashed again, and again, and he went down hard, her name on his lips, a whispered groan. “Ellie. No. Ellie. Don’t.”
She was tired of being told “Don’t.”
The girl was in the bathroom, cowering. Ellie had no remorse or hesitation, her knife an extension of her arm. The tip entered the flesh of the girl’s throat, and she ripped it to the left. The girl fell, the meaty scent of her blood a noted juxtaposition to the floral bodywash she’d always coveted.
Back in the kitchen, Ellie found herself standing over the sink, rinsing her hands. The knife shone clean on the counter beside her. The smell of bleach was at odds with the drink of death. She could hear Greg dying in the hall. Tiny gurgles—
“Oh my God, are you kidding me?”
I look up, shocked at being interrupted. It’s the blonde who took an immediate dislike to me at dinner last night, the one who made sure everyone in the group knew she had a short story published inan obscure regional literary magazine three years earlier. Whatever her name is ... Oh, lovely. I realize the entire group is staring at me with distaste etched on their faces.
Tammy’s face is twisted in distaste, too, but I don’t think it’s about my work. She’s already on her feet, furious. “We do not interrupt our fellow creatives when they are reading. If that happens again, you will be asked to leave the retreat. Am I clear?”
Abashed nods from the group. The blonde tosses her hair. “I thought this was a literary retreat. Not some slasher-film class.”
“Literature takes all forms, across all genres. As do we. Catriona, I apologize. Please, continue.”
“If there’s more blood, I must excuse myself,” the blonde says.
“There’s not,” I reply. I don’t really care what she thinks, but she interrupted me at a crucial point in the story. I put my head down and continue reading.
The fantasy ended. The fugue lifted. The knife’s blade was clean. Greg was not dead, but calling for her to stop, to listen.
She would not.
And she would not ruin her life over Greg Phillips and some idiotic bimbo. They weren’t worth her freedom, only worthy of herdisdain.
I put some emphasis on the last word and look up, giving Blondie a small smirk, then continue.
She put the knife back in the block unused and hurried out of the house, out of her perfect life, and drove back to the office. It was only then, ensconced in the plush leather of her office couch, that she allowed herself to grieve.
Greg showed up an hour later, calm, collected,with comb tracks in his thinning hair. How had she never noticed that before? He’d be bald by forty, and she hadn’t even realized he was receding.
He looked tired. Exhausted, really. And hangdog sad. How had she ever found him attractive? He wasn’t cute, not anymore. He would never be again.
“Get out,” she said, and she meant it.
“Babe, we need to talk.”
“How dare you call mebabe? I just caught you balls deep in another woman, in my shower, on our anniversary, and you want to call mebabe?”
“Ellie. Eleanor, I’m sorry. I never wanted this to happen.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me it was a onetime thing, that you’ll never see her again.”
His chest puffed a bit. “Actually, no. It isn’t. We’re in love. I was going to tell you tomorrow. I didn’t want to ruin our anniversary.”
