The Dead Boyfriend (7 page)

I had him trapped now. I moved forward and poked him again, pushing the tip of the blade against his belly.

“Give that to me!” He uttered an angry scream and swiped at the knife.

I tried to swing the blade out of his reach. But instead, I sliced through the palm of his hand. The blade cut silently. I gasped. I started to choke.

Eyes bulging in disbelief, he raised his hand in front of his face as a line of blood oozed onto the palm.

The blood trickled for a few moments. Then it started to spurt.

We both stared at the bleeding hand in silence. It was too horrifying for either of us to make a sound.

And then he began to wail, shrill high-pitched cries, waving the spurting blood in the air.

Like a fountain,
I thought.
Blood spurting like a bright fountain.

His shrieks made my ears ring. The sight of the blood made my stomach lurch. I gagged.

I had to stop that horrible sound he was making.

I swung the knife back, then plunged the blade deep into his stomach.

Again. I stabbed him again. Stabbed again.

That stopped the screaming. He made a gurgling sound and grabbed his belly with both hands. Dark blood seeped through the red hoodie and poured over his hands.

He dropped to his knees, moaning, making strange wheezing sounds. The blood ran out of his body. He raised his eyes to me, his face twisted in horror, in disbelief. He tried to speak, but blood rolled over his tongue and bubbled over his lips.

He sank on his side to the grass, hugging himself. He bled out so quickly.

I stood there watching, fighting back my nausea, gritting my teeth. So quickly. It happened so quickly. Or was I standing outside time? Did it actually take him a long time to die?

I can't tell you, Diary. I stood and watched the spreading blood. Such a big puddle of his blood, with him curled on his side inside it.

I was still gasping for breath, fighting the deep shudders that paralyzed my body, when I knew he was dead. And as soon as I knew, I started to move, to breathe again, to think more carefully and calmly.

I wiped the blood-soaked knife on the sleeve of his hoodie. Then I folded it up and tossed it into my bag. Gathered my belongings and stuffed everything back where it belonged.

Then I drove home, sobbing all the way. Sobbing at the top of my lungs, big tears rolling down my face, burning my cheeks.

My boyfriend, my only true love, was dead. I killed him. Stabbed him and watched him bleed to death. Killed him. I killed him.

So of course I cried. Cried and sobbed and moaned all the way home. I knew my life would never be the same.

 

PART TWO

 

15.

Thankfully, Mom and Dad were asleep in their room. I couldn't have faced them. I would've collapsed in a heap and never moved again.

How could I explain to them what I did? I couldn't explain it to myself.

I stood in the dark kitchen without turning on a light. My bag suddenly felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. I let it fall to the floor in front of the kitchen door.

The house was so still. The only sounds were my harsh breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. I took a few steps toward the kitchen counter. My sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. I pictured them covered in blood.

I pictured Blade swimming on his side in a lake of his own blood. I never knew that blood could smell so powerful. It smelled tangy and sour, very metallic.

I pictured Blade raising his head above the blood, gazing at me. Blood flowed down his face, thickly matted his hair. But he stared at me through the layer of blood, an accusing stare. He didn't need to speak. I could read the horror and the anger on his face.

I shook my head hard, erasing the terrifying picture from my mind. I shut my eyes tight and held them closed. Could I stay in this darkness and keep all these pictures from my brain?

No. For some reason, Deena Fear appeared before my eyes. Her black hair flew about her head as if being blown by a hurricane wind. Her lips were bright red, brighter than Blade's blood.

In my imagination, my feverish imagination, she raised a red hoodie in both hands and waved it at me.

Why is she doing that? Why is she even in my thoughts now?

The frightening stories of the Fear family contained many murders. According to legend, the Fears throughout their history knew how to murder people in the most hideous and painful ways.

But I'm a Donnelly. My grandparents came from County Wicklow in Ireland. We have never been murderers … till now.

I made my way through the dark house, then up the stairs to my room. I leaned on the banister and stepped as lightly as I could. I didn't want to make a sound.

I closed the bedroom door carefully behind me, crossed the room in the dark, and slumped onto the edge of my bed. The window was open. The curtains drifted in and out softly in a gentle breeze. Pale light from the streetlight across the street washed over the carpet.

I sat hunched on the bed staring at the shadows of the shifting curtains. I don't know how much time passed. I didn't move. I barely breathed.

At some point, I scratched the fingernails of my left hand over the back of my right hand. Dug the nails into the skin. Just to feel something. Just to feel some pain. But I was numb. My hand was like a limp sponge. I didn't feel a thing.

I sat there staring at shadows, chilled in the breeze from the window. Images rolled through my mind. Red hoodies … rivers of blood … Blade's accusing eyes … I couldn't shut the pictures out.

“I have to confess,” I said out loud, my voice hollow as it broke the deep silence. “I have to tell what I have done. I murdered Blade. I murdered him.”

I collapsed into shoulder-heaving sobs. I lowered my head, covered my face with both hands, and cried. Cried till my face and hands were soaked from tears.

The flashing red-and-blue lights made me stop. I lowered my hands and stared at the glare of the lights outside the bedroom window.

I heard a car door slam. The sharp sound snapped me from my shock. I grabbed a wad of tissues and mopped my face. Then I stumbled to the window and gazed down at the street.

A Shadyside police patrol car had stopped at the bottom of my driveway. The flashing red-and-blue roof lights gave the front lawn an eerie, unreal carnival glow. I watched two dark-uniformed officers striding up the driveway.

My knees started to collapse. I gripped the windowsill to keep myself up. A wave of nausea made me swallow hard. Again. Again.

They were here. The police were already here. Here to arrest me for Blade's murder.

I lurched into the hall and flew down the dark stairs. So fast. The police were so fast. So quick to end my life.

 

16.

Gripping the banister tightly, I stopped at the foot of the stairs. The two cops stood side by side in the open front doorway. The pulsing red-and-blue lights behind them made them appear to flicker in and out of view.

They eyed me in silence as I stepped up to the doorway. They had their caps off. They both had short, black hair and dark eyes. They could have been twins, except that the one on the left was about a foot taller than his partner and had a thick black mustache.

The tall one had his right hand resting on the gun holster at his waist. They both stood erect, tense, as if expecting trouble.

I didn't plan to give them any trouble. I knew why they were there, and I knew I had no choice but to surrender to them.

I gazed from one to the other. Their faces revealed no emotion at all. I wondered if they could see how much I was trembling. “I-I … know why you're here,” I stammered.

Their eyes grew wider as they studied me. “You do?” the shorter cop said.

His partner shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I'm Officer Rivera and he's Officer Miller. We were driving past and saw your front door open,” he said. “We wanted to make sure no one had broken in.”

My breath caught in my throat. I started to choke, but covered it up, made it sound like a cough.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to do a crazy dance. I wanted to hug them both.

“Oh my God,” I said, thinking fast. “My parents must have left it open. They … they were visiting friends. I think they just got home a little while ago.”

The officers seemed as relieved as I did. Miller smiled and nodded. Rivera lifted his hand off his holster. He brushed back his short black hair.

“Or maybe it was the wind,” I said, feeling braver. “I've been home all night. I didn't see the door was open.”

“Check the latch,” Miller said. “Make sure it works okay.”

“Thanks for noticing,” I said, my heart still racing. “I really appreciate it.”

They started to turn away. But Rivera stopped and motioned to the sleeve of my shirt. I followed his gaze and saw the dark stain there.

My heart skipped a beat. I forced myself not to react at all.

“Is that blood?” he asked, studying it. “Did you cut yourself?”

I fingered the sleeve. Studied it, too. “It's an old stain,” I said. “I don't think it's blood. I don't know what it is. It won't come out in the wash.”

They both gave me two-fingered salutes, touching their foreheads. Then they turned and walked into the pulsing lights, down the front lawn to their car.

I closed the door carefully. I let out a long sigh of relief. My parents hadn't awakened. I leaned my back against the door, shut my eyes, and tried to force my heartbeats to slow.

They didn't come to arrest me for murder.

But they'd be back.

I opened my eyes and ran my fingers over the dark stain on my sleeve. Still damp.

“The knife!” Did I say those words out loud?

The bloodstain reminded me of the knife, and I realized I didn't remember what I had done with it.

The murder weapon.

In my horror, in my panic, in my insane moment of deadly rage—did I leave it beside Blade's body? Did I just toss it to the ground and run?

Or did I take it with me?

I suddenly pictured dropping it in my bag. My bag …

I'd left it by the kitchen door. Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself away from the front door and made my way to the kitchen. I grabbed the bag by the twin handles and carried it up to my room.

Holding the bag brought back all my panic, all the horror of that terrible scene beside Blade's house. The tug-of-war—Blade and I battling over this bag in my hands.… If only … If only I hadn't let go. If only Blade hadn't overturned the bag.…

The knife never would have fallen out. I never would have seen it or thought about it.… Or
used
it.

I heaved the bag onto my bed and bent to paw through it. Yes. There it was. It took only a few seconds to feel the knife at the bottom, to wrap my fingers around the handle, and lift it out. It trembled in my hand as if it were alive.

I held it in front of me and snapped it open. The silvery blade gleamed under the bedroom ceiling light, and tiny droplets of blood sparkled like jewels.

Blade's blood. I stared at the blade until I was nearly hypnotized by it. Stared at the glowing blood drops and the smear of blood near the handle. Stared until I wanted to scream. Until I wanted to explode.

Yes. I suddenly knew I would explode—just go to pieces in a furious burst of horrifying energy—if I didn't do something. If I didn't tell someone.

“I can't stand it.” The words burst from my mouth. “I can't take it. I can't keep it all inside me.”

I let the knife fall to the rug at my feet. But the sparkling blood droplets on the blade lingered in my eyes.

Before I exploded, I had to tell someone. I had to confess what I had done.

Julie
. I thought immediately of my friend Julie. She was so practical, so sensible. She would listen to me. She wouldn't freak out.

I grabbed my phone in my trembling hand. The keypad came up. I stabbed at it, struggling to punch in Julie's number.

The phone rang twice before she answered.

“Julie? It's me!” I cried in a high, shrill voice. And the words just lurched from my mouth as if I were vomiting them into the phone. “I killed him! I did it. Oh, help me, Julie. Please help. I killed him. I just snapped. I lost it. I snapped. And I killed Blade!”

 

17.

I choked on the last words. My throat tightened and I couldn't speak. Panting, I pressed the phone to my ear.

“Who is this?” A hoarse voice on the other end, a woman's voice I didn't recognize. “Young lady, is this a prank call? If it is, it isn't funny.”

Oh, wow. I glanced at my phone screen. Wrong number. I'd called a wrong number.

“S-sorry,” I stammered. I clicked the call off before she could say anything else. I tossed the phone into my bag.

I dropped onto the bed and sat there hugging myself. I knew I wouldn't get to sleep that night. I wondered if I'd ever sleep again.

*   *   *

Blade's funeral was held in a small nondenominational chapel in North Hills. The chapel was long and narrow with dark wood-paneled walls and low wooden rafters overhead. Morning sunlight filtered in through narrow stained glass windows high on the walls.

Two huge vases of white lilies stood under spotlights in the front of a small altar. A podium stood between them. And beside the podium was Blade's coffin, made of shiny dark wood that glowed purple under the spotlights.

The coffin lid was up, and, from my seat near the back of the room, I could see that it was lined with a white satiny material. The idea that Blade was lying lifeless in that box didn't seem real to me.

Organ music played in the background. People drifted in silently. Not very many. Blade's family had moved to town so recently.

I sat between Julie and Miranda. Julie kept squeezing my hand and asking if I was okay. I nodded and wiped my tears with tissue after tissue.