I Thought I Was Someone Else #6 - The Deed

Published on 30 April 2024 at 16:04

The next few days I was walking on cloud nine. I could scarcely contain my excitement, my pleasure, my meek composure. I would often find myself drawn to the garage, over to my workbench, under which sat a metallic lockbox my father had left to me in his will from his time in the service. I usually hid my extra change and a few emergency cigarettes from my wife in there. Now, placed above all of that in both importance and position, sat the heavy gift I had received from Allen T. Watts.


I held that gat with care and reverence, practically worship. I would constantly find myself drawn to it, wanting to feel its heft in my hand, wanting to see the glint of the overhead light gleam off of the well-polished barrel. Yes, this gun was more than just a gift to me. It was a symbol of freedom. It was divine intervention, given to me by my savior.


Things went on in this manner until that next Saturday, when I received a most unexpected phone call.


“Hello?” I spoke into the receiver after the fourth ring. “May I help you?”


“I thought you needed my help,” came a familiar voice in reply. I beamed.


“Allen T. Watts! Yes, of course I still - ”


“You still have that…package I gave you?”


I beamed again, thinking of the gat in my garage. “Sure do, been taking real good care of it for you.”


“Alright, good. Now, I don’t need you monkeying around with it until the time comes to use it, see? It can be a bit tricky and we don’t want you mucking it up so it won’t fire when needed.”


“Oh no, of course not. I promise I won’t,” I assured him.


A short silence wafted across the line. “Alright pal, so here’s the way that it’s gonna go down,” Allen. T. Watts began slowly. I smashed my ear against the phone to ensure that I didn’t miss a single word.


And so, a plan was hatched.


Later that night, just shy of midnight, I found myself standing in the dark hallway, leering through our open bedroom door. Up until this point, I had followed his instructions exactly. I followed them to the letter.


I began my fake yawning around six o’clock, in order to trigger her mirror neurons and lull her into sleepiness, just like he told me to.


I encouraged her to eat a heavy dinner that I had ordered in special from the local Italian eatery, just like he had instructed.


It seemed like countless hours until she was actually asleep and quiet, but in reality it had been relatively quick. Around nine, Clarissa told me that she was going to lie down for a few minutes, which was Clarissa code for a nap that was sure to turn into a good nights sleep. I bid her goodnight for the final time. For the first time in forever, I did actually believe that it could be a good night.


I crept out of bed at a quarter to midnight, just as he had directed. I slunk into the garage and retrieved from my workbench the right tool for the job. The gat, the piece, the drill, the Devil’s paintbrush. Many names that all meant the same thing; it meant death for one heartless bitch tonight.


Now, as it neared midnight, the time that he had specified as the time that most break-ins occurred, I stood in wait. My body tensed with nervous, borderline gleeful anticipation. I eyed the red numbers displayed on our bedside alarm clock. It was two minutes to midnight. I raised the steel in my hand. It felt good.


It was one minute to midnight. I aimed and cocked my finger around the trigger. Then, the telephone rang.


Like a bat out of hell, Clarissa shot wide awake, sitting up quickly and already fumbling around for the receiver while her eyes were still half-lidded. I was frozen in place, my hand still lingering in the air. Did I want her to see it? Or did I want to put it down? Change my mind?


I had no answers in the short time that it took Clarissa to wake the rest of the way up and look at me. Her eyes transitioned from heavy-lidded sleep to wide-eyed surprise. “What are you doing with a - ”


I squeezed the trigger before she finished. The gun flamed and bucked wildly in my hand. I charged forward and fired three more shots in quick succession, apparently missing them all until I found myself standing at the bedside, towering over this horrible wretch the way that she once loomed so largely over me. She ducked down and made herself as small as she could, wrapping herself up in the down comforter as if it were made of kevlar. I grinned viciously. This time, I wouldn’t miss. This time, I put the barrel directly into her stupid mouth, the one that was always open. “Whuup wur ooh du-,” she began again, but I pulled the trigger hard to still her wriggling tongue.


As her head dropped and her eyes rolled back into her skull, I said with a sneer, “The loudest one in the room is the weakest one in the room.” I was quoting Allen T. Watts who, at that particular time, was quoting Frank Lucas. It was a true turducken of quotes, and I found it fitting.


My victorious smile shattered soundly soon as the smoke cleared.


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