Chris Dean sent us in a bit of short story mastery. The imagination of our own souls is what drives this one – Jim
Silly Fool
The room had a metal door
and no window. Harsh white light spilled over gray surfaces. Two bunk beds hung
from the wall and what appeared to be a toilet and sink sat beyond them.
Photographs taped to the wall and ceiling attested the cellâs occupant was a family
man. He was up top, snoring.
The young man sat on the
bottom bunk. Hard. Everything about this place was hard and cold. He might have
to spend years in places like this. Decades. He buried his face in his hands
and stifled a sob.
Why had he killed her?
How could he have acted that way? An image of a deathly-white body at the
bottom of the stairs flashed and he shuddered. Poor Susan. She hadnât deserved
to die that way.
The man in the top bunk
woke and dangled his legs. His orange jumpsuit was dirty. He brushed back a
dark tangle of hair. âYou know what time it is?â
The young man was
suffering from arrest-shock. The concept of time escaped him.
âWe eat at five. How long
till five? You know?â
The young man panted, âIt
might be five.â
âItâs not five or weâd be
eating. Nameâs Paul. Iâm here for violating a court order. I lost my job and
couldnât pay child support. The judge is a hard ass. She gave me four months.â
âIâm Fern Harper.â
âYou just get here?â
âI just got arrested.
They said it was for parking tickets.â But how could that be true? The police
didnât arrest you for parking tickets. Someone had found her body and they were
just playing him. Any minute, they would have him in a room and theyâd be
screaming her name at him.
âI read in the paper, the
city has zero tolerance now.â
âWhat?â Fernâs heart
skipped.
âSince theyâre broke, the
city started busting people with more than a hundred dollars in tickets. You
just got to pay the fine.â
âYou read this in the
newspaper.â
âSure enough.â
This was fantastic. âI
think I owe about two hundred. I can pay it.â He could get out of there and
dispose of the corpse. Like he should have done earlier. Leaving Susan that way
was terribly untidy.
There was a clink and a little window opened in the
door. âHarper?â
He went to the door and
leaned over. âIâm Fern Harper.â
The guard held a
clipboard. âYou have one hundred and eighty-six dollars in unpaid fines. Court
costsâre sixty-five which comes to a total of two fifty-one. You had a debit
card in your procession at the time of your arrest. You have the option to pay
with that card.â
âI can?â
The clipboard with
attached pen pushed through the window. âJust put your pin number down and sign
at the bottom.â
Fern followed
instructions. He passed the clipboard back. âHow long will I have to wait?â
âBout an hour.â
Two hours later, he was
walking back to the Torino. For one terrifying instant he imagined that he had
lost his keys in jail. His nerves were just shot. Worrying about getting
caught, and the guilt. He had to get rid of that body. Then, he would be able
to relax a little.
It would be hell moving
her body and he drove home slowly. He felt miserable. Why had he done it? Had
she done something so wrong that he had the right to do what he did? He gripped
the steering wheel and cursed. That was the problem! He didnât really know the
truth.
He passed the little
park, her spot, only a few blocks from the house. His hands trembled. Fern
hated feeling so helpless. She was gone and he would never get his answers. Why
hadnât he questioned her before he threw her down the stairs?
If A: Susan was a tramp
who did everyone in the office, then Fernâs actions had been justified. If B:
She was a sneaky bitch who had a password on her phone and disappeared for hours
at a time without permission, then again: he was justified in losing his
temper. This whole thingâall of it!âit was her fault. She was a silly little
fool!
Yes, he was justified,
anyone could see that. That the stairs were present at the time of the incident
was coincidental and beyond Fernâs control. He regretted that the stairs had
caused her death. But it wasnât his fault. In a court of law, Fern was certain
he would be exonerated, if it ever came to that.
He pulled into the
driveway. Damn, the house seemed quiet now. He would miss her, wouldnât he? He
would miss the sex. God, she had a nice body. What a waste.
He needed a drink and
went inside. The whole house was deadly quiet. Rushing through the foyer and
into the hall, he averted his gaze from the gruesome sight on the bottom
landing. He ran to the kitchen and gulped Windsor straight from the bottle.
The world grew dark
outside the windows while he sat at the table and decided how to dispose of his
dead girlfriend. The whiskey helped. His plan involved a chain saw and several
large plastic bags, neither of which he had. He would have to wait until
morning to go to a hardware store. This meant Fern could A: step over her to go
sleep upstairs, or B: sleep on the couch, ten feet from a dead body.
He cradled a water glass
full of booze. He found his feet and shuffled down the dark hall. Curious, he
guessed. He wanted to know how much it would shock him. It didnât really shock
him at all. He only felt loss.
Fern couldnât see her
face. Her dress was a tumble of blue and green, but she was laying under that
cabinet almost as if she were only sleeping. He blew out a breath; the cabinet
was an antique, filled with her motherâs knitting and her fatherâs military
memorabilia. It was like Fern had brought them all together again. Maybe her
death was destiny.
He shuffled closer,
staring. Her body still looked good. If he was a perv he would be doing her
right now. There was no way he could do that, but she sure looked good.
Something happened and he
froze. Had her leg moved? Had he imaginedâ? He leaned closer. Oh god, she was
breathing!
He dropped his glass. She
shifted away from the cabinet and propped back against the wall. Dark strings
of hair hung over her swollen cheek.
âIâm sorry,â he
whispered.
âYou could have killed
me, Fern. All because of your petty, petty jealously.â
âI didnât mean to hurt
you.â
âYou never mean it! This
time you went too far.â
He edged into the living
room. âWhat do you mean by that?â
âIâm calling the police.â
âI canât let you do
that.â He searched in the dark until he found the log on the hearth. Perfect
weight and it even had a little nub to hold on one side. He hefted it. Perfect.
âYouâre not going to stop
me.â
âI canât let you hurt
me.â He raised the log and stalked toward the stairs.
The cabinet doorâit was
ajar. She had gotten in it and there was something in her hand. Her fatherâs
gun. Fern began to beg, beg for his life, but something in her eyes told him he
was wasting his breath. She wanted to do this. The hammer cocked back and the
revolver fired. It made a very loud noise inside of the house.
Chris Dean travels western America as a truck driver and this writer adores Yellowstone, the Klamath, and anyplace sequoias touch the sky. Chrisâ work has appeared in Aurora Wolf, Page & Spine, and other publications.