I’d like to say it was my earliest memory that I knew I was different. Not the case. Add about four years to the total and then I knew something was up. Follow this with the cats I graduated to and yeah, I’m thinking running over a family of toads with the lawnmower and realizing I didn’t give a shit is when my tendencies went and made themselves known.
You understand what it is I’m saying here? It’s importance?
Good. Wouldn’t want anything getting lost in the translation.
So I do the cats. Make my way to dogs. And then come about seventeen I go live, become a big game hunter, and say my whatnots to old Mr. Kemper who lived two farms down. Did a number on that man too, his bib overalls the same color of his shirt by time the thresher catches bone. Unfortunate accident they said. Bad things just sometimes happen to good people. You don’t say.
I’m never suspected. Never even asked. Weird, I know, but by this time I’d already figured out how to play the game. Have been playing it my entire life now that I mention it. Fifty some odd years and not even so much as a sniff. Means I’m doing something right. Means I might be smarter than your average bear. Might also mean my time is coming and I’m only as lucky as the next guy. This seems more likely the case, as I’m a firm believer in the law of averages.
But I’m having fun. Oh yes. Loads. Which brings us to you and how you fail to see things as you should.
Molly. Molly-Molly-Molly.
The way Rob treats you is not the way a person should be treated. Not someone such as you. You are a fine woman, strong and opinionated. Your hair is long and your eyes are bright. But I know this is just for show. Parts of it anyway. I can respect that. I have to. Not because I have seen the medication your doctor has you on but because sometimes we all need a little alone time to let out the air.
It’s okay, I’m on your side.
And you never asked for help, correct, but I am a man who not only believes in averages but one who is compelled to do what he thinks is right whenever he can. This might run counter to what the world thinks of men like me but it is who I am regardless. Just because you did not give me a key and I had one made does not make me any less forthright than the next guy. I’m only looking out for you, ensuring you are as safe as can be. It’s why I friended you on Facebook and joined all the groups you like. I also “happened” upon your passwords, doing so from my computer late at night. You are quite the little saver I see, though you do still owe quite a bit on your student loan. This here, us getting to know one another, this is what eventually leads me to your underwear drawer and why I eventually try on all nineteen pairs. We have touched now, you and I, but not as I want, nor as I need. It’s why I find your dirty clothes bin and pull out the final two pairs. You are on them, in them, and then so am I. As I knew you would be, you are exquisite. It’s why Rob will never again touch you as he’d like, why you will never again wear nothing but turtlenecks for weeks.
You understand what it is I’m saying here? It’s importance?
I am not as stupid as I look, not when it comes to matters concerning the heart. Some are, sure, and this is the reason I took our Rob home to the old farm where my dearly departed parents eventually purchased old Mr. Kemper’s thresher. As is its purpose, the big machine eats, the time between sittings quite vast indeed. I want to say Rob understood this but the man seemed a little preoccupied there at the end. Some could wonder why.
It means you are safe now. Or safer than you were. I will continue to check in on you from time to time. I might even say hi. If I do, a word of caution. Do not ignore me, not as you have. Not after everything I’ve done. Give credit where credit is due. At least do that. It would also help for you to remember and believe in what makes this world go round.
If anything, I would have you do that.
~ fin ~
Beau Johnson is the author of the Bishop Rider Books. A Better Kind Of Hate, The Big Machine Eats, All Of Them To Burn, Brand New Dark, and coming this October from Down and Out Books, Old Man Rider, Beau’s last published book. He lives in Canada with his wife and three boys and wants you to know it’s been an honor as much as it’s been a blast. Long live crime fiction. Long live the dark stuff.
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