“Killing Time”—City & Colour
My fingers wind around the leather steering wheel, my breath fogging the driver's side window with each angry exhale. I knew it was a man she's been talking to. I could tell by the way she spoke, the way she reacted, the stupid, silly little smile on her face. But I didn't for a second think he'd be local. I didn't think that of all people fucking Janine would play a role in it. I could fucking kill her. My thoughts roam to Janine lying on her back with both hands pointlessly held up in defense as an ax comes heaving down on her. Splitting her fucking face in two after mangling her hands and fingers. The thought brings me immense pleasure, and a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
I will kill Janine.
For an hour, I've been sitting outside the bar, rage flooding my veins, adrenaline simmering just beneath the skin, ready to explode.
Watching them joke and laugh and kiss, seeing him take what is rightfully mine right before my fucking eyes… it takes everything in me not to remove the gun from my glove box, walk into that fucking bar, and shoot every last motherfucker in there. All I can think about is them going to a motel room, his hands roaming over her body. I'm overwhelmed by visions of him penetrating her and her loving it. I bet she'd love every fucking minute of it.
Miranda doesn't think of me like I think of her. If she did, she wouldn't be giving herself away like this. She wouldn't be hurting me like this. The pain suffocating me is overshadowed only by an incredible anger I don't think I've ever felt. I slam my palm against the edge of the steering wheel over and over until my entire hand stings.
I'm struck again with an intense urge to kill… anyone and anything. Fuck plans. Fuck methodical thinking. Someone's going to fucking die tonight, but it's gotta be smart. I think of Janine as I put the vehicle in drive, but I know her murder must be planned—if I ever hope to not be caught, that is. She’s just tied to me too closely.
A whore on Tenth Street will have to do. I tuck my hair into a hat and pull it lower over my face. Just as I pull my vehicle onto the road, a lifted truck, metal balls dangling below the tailgate, comes screaming past me. I stomp on the brakes just as the truck's horn blares and a skinny middle finger darts out the window.
I feel a slanted, wicked smile fill my face as anger surges through my body until I'm in an all-out tremble. Streaks of light take up my vision. Rationale fades.
I pull my vehicle out slowly and follow the truck, which is now quite a ways down the road.
To my complete satisfaction, the truck continues out of the city and into the farm-rich countryside. I follow him for a good forty minutes, a safe distance behind, anticipation shaking me to my core. As a thick patch of darkness surrounds us, the city lights long since faded in the rearview, I snag a police light from my glove compartment and set it on the dash. I've never used it before, but right now, I'm happy I picked it up.
I flash the lights, and moments later, he pulls to the side of the barren road. I pull in behind him and put the Range Rover in park. Grabbing a Bowie hunting knife in its sheath in the glove compartment, along with a snub-nose revolver, I climb out of the vehicle. I slip the revolver into my front pocket and the knife behind my back in my waistband.
The walk is endless. Each step sends shivers up my spine. I can taste the kill. I can smell the iron in his blood. And I see Miranda's lover. In my head, it's him I'll be killing. It's his pathetic eyes staring back at me in horror as the life is ripped from him.
One day it will be.
"There a problem, officer?" the redneck asks, arching his head out the window just as a bullet rips through the door.
His high-pitched squeal lets me know I hit him, and I can't help but smile. A German shepherd barks at me from the backseat, its lips reared back, teeth gnashing, but he's leashed to the back door.
Opening the man's door, I direct the gun toward the dog's head. The man's confused eyes meet my own. I crook my neck and smile.
"Wh-why are you doing this?" he bellows, two hands grasping his blood-soaked knee.
I shift the revolver's aim from the dog, down to the man's already destroyed knee, and pull the trigger again. A blast ricochets out into the vast nothingness. The man slams his head back into the seat, screaming in pain. The dog wildly licks the man’s face.
I crack a smile, studying his thrashing body as I stow the revolver back in my front pocket and retrieve the knife from my waistband. I hold it in front of his face, letting him get a good look at it.
He whimpers as he bats at the mess that once was his knee. "Please," he begs hoarsely. "Please, stop." His eyes drift to mine, pitiful as can be. "Please."
"Please, save me your tears. I have no use for them. Now your blood." I grin. "That's a whole other matter."
I pull the knife back then thrust it up into his chin. All six inches settle in his skull.
I catch a glint of moonlight off the sharpened blade through his open mouth, then with one quick motion, I pull the knife back out.
All I see are the whites of his eyes as he slouches over the middle console, motionless.
Slipping the blade back into its sheath and returning it to my waistband, my eyes wander to the dog in the backseat, still barking wildly and sending surges of anger throughout me. I want to kill it too, but before I can retrieve my revolver, a brilliant scenario plays out in my head—a dog eating its owner. I’ve read stories about it, and the idea fills me with a giddy, childlike wonder.
Depositing the revolver back in my pocket, I pull the knife out of my waistband as I turn the car off with my other gloved hand. Shutting his door, I creep around to the back passenger side door. I open it and quickly cut the leash before closing it again.
I wander back to my truck, a smile taking up my whole face as I imagine what it will be like for the man’s family to walk up on this scene, the dog snout-deep in the man’s guts. I imagine his family on the news, crying over their stupid little redneck fuck-up who was “going to make something of himself one day.” Please.
As I reach my Range Rover, the police light still spinning blue and red into the quiet night, my eyes drift back to the metal balls hanging from the back of his truck… those stupid fucking metal balls. I hate those fucking things.