Escaping shadows is never easy. Especially the darker they come.
And no shadow looms larger than a mother’s love...
And no shadow looms larger than a mother’s love...
Emerging Evil by Sue Coletta
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She screams, a high-pitch shrill that cuts right behind my eyes.
Against my will the corners of my lips arch, but I force them down. Maybe I
should let her go.
Do it.
But what if someone saw my van?
Do it.
The woman begs, her voice barely audible now. “Please, mister,
don’t hurt me.”
Do it now, you idiot!
I shield my ears, but it’s no use. The voice taunts me, dares me
to continue. Every part of my being yearns to comply … except a haunting memory
from yesteryear, a child who hangs on to Sunday mornings from my youth—wooden
pews, leather-clad Bibles, the overwhelming power of His word.
Maybe I should let her go.
Do it.
I shrug off the hesitation and stare at her nakedness.
Porcelain-white skin, honey-blonde curls that spill in ringlets over a sculptured
shoulder. And she’s mine, all mine. This time no one can take her away.
Moonlight cascades through the basement window. Misty, diffused, the smoldering
glow kisses my blade. I step closer, and she thrashes in the restraints.
Do it.
Do it.
With my fingertips I trace her cheek, her jaw, across the
collarbone to the soft V at the base of her neck. Her jugular pulses through
the skin. One slash is all it would take. But she’s so perfect, so gorgeous
lying there.
Do it.
I sift my fingers through her hair.
“Please, mister.” Tears hitch her shaky voice. “I’ll do anything
you want.”
My upper lip curls in disdain. “You mean sex?”
“If you let me go …”
I told you she’s a whore. Do it!
I stuff a white gag in her mouth and knot the ends around the back
of her skull. I close my eyes and allow the fantasy to emerge, the mental image
that holds my deepest desires, the ultimate temptation.
Do it.
I level the blade at her throat. Her chin dimples, quivers in
fear. Tears deluge her eyes, skim the sides of her face in straight lines, and
pool on the steel table, her blonde locks wicking the moisture.
With my thumb I sweep away her sadness. “Shhh … it’ll be over
soon.”
Do. It. Now.
Silent and swift, I draw the blade across her throat. Warm blood
strikes my face, her very essence spurts to the rhythm of her heart. Crimson
liquid weeps from the incision. Her eyes roll back in her head, lashes
fluttering like a raven’s dying wings.
As the death rattle echoes in her throat, I lean forward in search
of that brief moment of clarity when her soul escapes the confines of her body,
her finality and my becoming.
With a final gasping breath, her muscles ease. A quick streak of
light soars toward the heavens, and a lone tear trickles down my cheek.
Mother hollers down the basement stairs, “What’s all that racket?”
I glimpse the knife in my hand, blood dripping in
anticipation. I glance over my shoulder at Mother’s shadow, reflected on the
sheetrock, mocking me, testing my resolve. The last trace of doubt melts away
like wax to a flame.
Slowly I rotate toward her.
Do it.
I snicker. “Coming, Mother.”
I snicker. “Coming, Mother.”
