‘Tell me a secret,’ she says, eyes blue and trustworthy.
There is a
story inside of me, fluttering like a bird, desperate to escape. She may not be
as trustworthy as she looks, but I know, piece by piece, that I am losing my
memory. It’s a Swiss cheese kind of loss. Nothing left inside but holes full of
radio static. If I forget this story too, no one will ever find out.
‘When I was
seventeen, I killed a man.’
She sucks
in air, a fish on the hook. She wants something titillating, but not this.
‘It was a
friend of my father’s. He gave me a lift after church every week. One Sunday, he
pulled into a shady park and raped me. Then he drove me home and waved to my
parents. Such a cheerful fellow. I felt a slow-burning anger, but I was patient.
I could wait.’
She looks
at me, breathless.
‘You know I’m
a diabetic.’
She nods.
‘I had a
kit of syringes and knew you could kill someone by injecting air into their
bloodstream. It’s why every nurse gives the needle that little spurt before
sticking it in you.’
Her eyes
beg me to continue.
‘My parents
had a party, and of course they invited him. I hid my revenge behind a vase of
flowers. When he arrived, his wife on his arm, he gave me a knowing smile. I
smiled right back like I always did, like nothing was wrong.
My job was
to circulate with plates of food. I was invisible like the rest of the
waitstaff. The noise level rose as people got a little drunk. Everything was
funny. As he waved his glass and told a story, I pulled the syringe from behind
the vase, dropping a napkin at the same time. As I picked it up, I stabbed the
needle into the back of his thigh. Then I yanked it out, wrapped it in the
napkin, and moved on. He winced, his hand running down his trouser leg,
pressing away the pain.
What’s
wrong? people asked.
He shook
his head, then toppled to the floor, dead on arrival.
A heart
attack, they thought, and went to his funeral. His
wife made a good grieving widow, but I could see relief in her eyes.’
I look at
my listener. ‘That’s the end of the story. No one ever found out.’
‘What about
you? Did you turn to a life of crime?’ she giggles, wanting more.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Nothing like that. I felt I had done enough evil for one lifetime and tried to
live a good life.’
‘And you
did,’ she says, nodding to the certificates and awards on my bedroom wall.
‘Well,
dear, I guess that’s enough for tonight.’ She smiles and straightens my pillow.
‘It’s time for your insulin.’ She flourishes my syringe.
Bio
Gail Vallance Barrington has published short stories and poems in literary journals and has published a pop-up series about an irrepressible young starlet on her website. She is writing a mystery set in the Rocky Mountains and is a NovelNovember 2025 Champion. She is now working on her second draft. See https://gailbarrington.ca/creative-writing
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