You Got It All Wrong


I know how this must look. Here I am, standing in his apartment, holding a gun in my hand, while he is lying flat on his back with a huge hole in his forehead. I admit, it does look suspicious, but it’s not what it looks like at all.

I’m pretty sure his friends are going to testify that I was following him -or rather stalking him, as they would call it – but that’s a lie. There was no need for stalking him. He never really meant to break up with me, even if he said so. It was just a moment of anger because I was maybe a little too clingy. I knew we would sort it out eventually but only if he wasn’t allowed to forget me. I knew that deep down inside, he didn’t want to move on. He just needed a little bit of time on his own and to think of a good way to ask for my forgiveness. He shouldn’t have worried so much. Sure, it was a shock when he told me to “get the fuck out of my life and leave me alone”. That and being informed that he never really fancied me because I was too fat and too annoying, was hard to take but still, forgivable. Most of the girlfriends of his friends are of the anorexic type while I am curvy. Peer pressure’s a bitch. Even in the beginning, he never admitted that it was because of my curves that he’d felt attracted to me in the first place.

Jealousy is an ugly word and an ugly feeling. I’m a generous person; I have hardly ever felt jealous in my life. I certainly didn’t when I saw him with that skinny little tart. That was hardly a competition, now, was it?  As flat as a surfboard, as tall as a giraffe, and with natural blonde hair. Who would fancy that? I never even thought that he was having an affair with her. The only reason why I followed them was that I was worried because I’d heard she was the hysterical type. I could very well imagine what someone like that would do to him if she found out he was just having a bit of fun.

It did hurt me at first when I saw them kiss in the park. She put a lot of passion into that kiss. He seemed rather reluctant. If he’d gotten a chance to fight her off, if she hadn’t been sitting on his lap, practically nailing him to the bench, I’m sure he would have fled.  In any case, it got me worried even more. She would rip him apart given a reason. The moment I saw them heading towards his apartment, I ran home to get the gun. I might have to defend him.

By the time I arrived, they had already finished. Hardly what I would call passionate. I saw her getting dressed while he was lying on the bed, smoking a cigarette. The bedroom window was open and as it’s a ground floor apartment it was easy to climb in, even for me, and I’m not exactly the athletic type.

I wasn’t surprised she started screaming the moment she saw me. It was quite typical of such a highly-strung, crazed bitch.

“Get out of my house, you psycho,” he yelled.

Finally, he was telling her to get lost. It was about time. I wasn’t sure why he was looking at me, though.

“You heard him,” I said. “He’s had his fun, now beat it.”

The expression on her face told me she was furious. Being brushed off like this in front of someone else must have stung.

“I’ll call the police,” he said.

“No need, I’ve got it covered.”

Things got a bit chaotic from then on. He jumped out of bed and was between us in a flash while she yanked him back, ready to attack him. I couldn’t let that happen. I aimed and shot at her, but the bitch hit the dirt and he ended up dead on the floor. I may have pulled the trigger, but she’s the one who got him killed.

~ fin ~

The car didn’t even slow down, that was what upset Maureen the most. More than her newly-permed hair whipping across her face, more than the pounding in her chest. She stood in the middle of the pedestrian crossing and watched her precious oranges bounce off down the road.

“You little toe-rag,” she screeched, waving her walking stick at the vanishing smear of the car. “Just you wait till my Harold gets hold of you.” Then she burst into tears, not from shock but because Harold was only five months in the ground and it was still too soon.

She hoped the driver would see she was frail, and stop to help. He might pick up the oranges, and the biscuits and tea that were spilled and spoiling in the road. But there was no change in the exhaust’s throaty roar, no sign of the car deviating from its route. In the distance the window wound down, an arm emerged, and a finger jabbed towards the sky. Even over the engine noise she heard his voice, roughened by triumph and too many cigarettes.

“Get out of the road, you stupid old cow!”

She phoned her grandson once she could keep the quaver out of her voice. “Who round here drives a navy blue BMW?”

“Gran? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, dear. Just answer the question.”

“If it had alloy wheels then it’s probably Wayne Bright. Lives in one of the tower blocks and nobody likes him much. Plays his music all hours of the night and he’s never done a decent day’s work in his life – he spends most of his time at the bookies in town.”

She got her mobility scooter out and trundled to the square. It was the one Harold had bought for her only the previous year; at the time he’d made some modifications she never thought she’d need. Thanks to Wayne Bright she’d changed her mind.

Bright sun bounced off the bookie’s plate-glass windows, throwing her reflection back at her, and that of a large dark car swerving in to park. She recognised that car, even back to front – the same one that had nearly knocked her down. A youth got out and slammed the door. Maureen worried that he’d spot her watching him, but he had a hoodie pulled down low over his eyes and headphones clamped to his ears, and wouldn’t notice an elephant driving a double-decker bus.

He paused to light a cigarette, hands cupping the match against the breeze. He took the first deep drag of smoke, held it in his lungs, prepared to release. Maureen seized her chance. Using Harold’s special controls she put the scooter in silent mode and sidled up behind. At the last second she hit a different control and an air-horn blasted the busy street. The result was better than she’d hoped. The lad jumped so hard he inhaled the cigarette. Tears dribbled down his face and he coughed until he retched, odd little puffs of smoke still rising from his throat.

“Out of my way, you stupid little runt,” she screeched, and flicked Harold’s third and final switch. The blades shot out of the centre of her wheels, gleaming and glinting in the sun, their edges as sharp as swords. “Out of my way,” she called again, and shot the scooter forward at ramming speed.
The lad screamed as she ran over his foot. He screamed again as the blades bit deep. He screamed a third time as the blood began to spurt. He collapsed to the pavement clutching both his legs. Around him people stopped and stood and stared, and then they began to cheer.

Harold, her dear Harold, car mechanic extraordinary and godfather of the local estate. He’d ruled these streets with a rod of iron. He would be proud of her.