How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 4

  “Get ready for what?” she said in bewilderment.

  Stacy smiled grandly then, and pointed down at the body: “…And, now!” she whispered.

  As she said it, the corpse convulsed and took a long, rasping inhalation—as if the boyfriend had only been holding his breath all that time! Vera gasped and scurried back into the corner. She realized that she could not breathe. She lay frozen as the boyfriend began to move. For a few moments, inarticulate sounds escaped from his mouth—groans—as if he were having a bad nightmare. Then, all at once, the boyfriend sat upright and opened his eyes. Vera went to scream, but the sound again would not come, so she lay there, trying to breathe. Stacy held the boyfriend then, and shushed him.

  “This is only a dream,” she whispered as she caressed the nape of his neck. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. We had wonderful sex, and this is merely a dream. Close your eyes and sleep.” At that, the boyfriend lay back down and was soon snoring. Stacy smiled at him and caressed his hair. Vera still had not moved. When she could breathe again, she found herself hyperventilating. Stacy looked back at her and winked mischievously.

  Stacy opened the back door, and they got out of the vehicle. Vera was trembling.

  “Take long, deep breaths, Vera,” Stacy advised her, to stop her hyperventilating. Stacy opened the passenger side door of the van then, and gestured with her head for Vera to get in. After Vera had complied, Stacy walked around and got into the driver’s seat. Vera was sitting there, staring ahead. Only when Stacy slammed the driver’s side door did Vera seem to come to her senses. She jumped in her seat and looked around as if just waking up.

  “What just happened!” she said breathlessly.

  Stacy smiled. “You saw for yourself and you still have to ask questions?”

  “He was dead…” Vera whispered, staring ahead blankly.

  “And now he’s alive again.”

  “Are you saying he can’t die?”

  “I’ve killed him three times so far,” Stacy said nonchalantly.

  “The two other people you said you killed…you mean it was only him all the time?”

  “Yes. He keeps coming back to life.”

  “How is that possible?”

  Stacy smiled at her—as if she had said something stupid. “You ask the wrong questions, Vera.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you witness something that is clearly impossible, asking ‘why’ and ‘how’ is a waste of time. The important thing is that we know the impossible is possible—that everything we thought to be real is irrelevant.”

  “You’re saying you don’t care how he comes back to life? You don’t care if he’s immortal—if there’s something about his physiology that can make us all live forever?”

  “Living forever is a fool’s desire, Vera,” Stacy chastised her, as if disappointed by the limits of her imagination. When Vera looked at her helplessly, she said, “You’ll see what I mean.”

  Vera nodded her head, even though she still understood nothing. She sat silently for a while, staring out of the windshield blankly. At last, something occurred to her: “How’d you find out he couldn’t die? There had to be a first time?”

  “I don’t like thinking about it,” Stacy said flatly. She retreated into herself.

  “Please,” Vera pressed her. “What happened?”

  “Okay.” She sighed as she thought about it. “We went hiking last weekend—in Vermont. We were out in the middle of nowhere, hiking on this beautiful mountain ridge. We could see out over the entire valley. We could see for miles. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the scene was like a postcard. We were walking on this narrow ledge. It was just a few feet wide at most; to the left, there was a ravine—a drop of at least one thousand feet. My boyfriend was walking in front. I can’t remember what he was talking about exactly—but he kept looking over his shoulder, at me, as he walked. He wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and he had made a misstep. He tried to catch his balance; he waved his arms in the air and arched his back, trying to keep from falling over the edge, but it was no use. It happened so quickly…I was frozen in place. Soon, he was toppling over the edge, into the ravine. He disappeared into the shadows of trees. He brushed past some of them on the way down, and then there was this sickening thud. It seemed to echo through the entire valley.”

  “My God,” Vera whispered. “What did you do?”

  “For a while, I couldn’t do anything. I stood there, frozen. It was as if my mind refused to accept it. I was in shock. If he had fallen, I knew that he was dead, and I could not bring myself to accept it. Maybe I stood there for thirty seconds or a minute, waiting for my mind to accept what had happened. …And we were in the middle of nowhere. My boyfriend was the hiking buff, not me. I had no idea how to navigate the woods and read maps. If he was dead, then I’d be lost in the woods by myself. I’m not saying I was only thinking of me, but all these thoughts made my mind lock up—

  “I remember that I screamed all of a sudden. It just came out of me—as if my mind had added up everything and the scream was the result. Anyway, the scream seemed to break the spell somewhat, because I began to run—or at least, to move as quickly as I could down the narrow path. The path meandered down to the ravine. It was a long hike—about an hour. I couldn’t think anymore—I just jogged. Every once in a while, I would remember that my boyfriend had fallen over the edge and that I was alone. By the time I got down to the floor of the ravine my mind was like something that had been chewed up. I was expecting him to be dead. I didn’t have any hopes. I was just rushing to…I don’t even know why. I was rushing because it was something to do. Also, he had the cell phone. I was thinking that maybe I could call for help—even though that was stupid, as we were out in the woods, and there was no service. I was crying. The tears were streaming down my face before I became conscious of them. I was already mourning him. …But when I got to the foot of the ravine, I saw him walking toward me, dusting off his clothes. I froze. He walked the rest of the way to me. There was this confused expression on his face. ‘What happened?’ he said. I grabbed him and hugged him, screaming, ‘I thought you were dead!’ I began to cry again, but now in relief. ‘What happened?’ he said again. I detached from him and stared up at him. ‘You’re really not hurt?’ I asked. He said he was fine, but then asked how he’d gotten down there. I told him that he had fallen; and then, I pointed up to the hiking trail: ‘You fell from there.’ We both stared up at it. He seemed more shocked than me. I reasoned: ‘You must have been knocked out by the fall. You sure you didn’t break anything?’ He said, ‘No, I’m fine…but if I fell from there…’

  “He did not finish the statement, but it was in my mind too. If he had fallen from there, then he should be dead. We continued walking, but I kept thinking, ‘He should be dead.’ Or, if not dead, he should have some broken bones or something. I was grateful that he seemed well, but I knew, deep down in my heart, that it was impossible, and something was wrong.

  “We made it to the campsite. It was nighttime now. We were lying on one of those air mattresses. We had finished eating, and were lying there staring up at the stars. The fire we had used to cook earlier was dwindling down—but the moon was out, highlighting everything. It was peaceful, and I began to put thoughts of death out of my mind. Anyway, one thing led to another and we started making love. …The sensation of the wind blowing on bare skin makes you feel alive and free. When you make love outside, you feel like you’re making love to the entire world. It’s almost like you’re drawing off all the world’s energy and using it for your pleasure. You feel limitless. I felt myself drifting off into the pleasure—losing myself—when my boyfriend suddenly stopped and looked at me with a terrified frown: ‘You hear something?’ he whispered. I held my breath and listened, but I didn’t hear anything. ‘Like what?’ I whispered back. ‘Footsteps?’ he said, but there was a slight smile on his face now, so I knew he was kidding. ‘I thought you liked an audience,’ I teased him, and
caressed his back, so he could continue making love to me. We liked to talk while we made love—to tell one another all kinds of crazy things. That’s when I whispered, ‘Wouldn’t it be a turn-on if people could see us lying here: you on top of me while I take every delicious thrust?’ He liked it when I said stupid shit like that. He groaned in agreement and pleasure. I went on: ‘What if two Boy Scouts had wandered away from their camp and were watching us right now—seeing how a man does it to a woman; hearing how a man makes a woman moan?’ And I groaned there and sucked at his neck. I was turning myself on—turning us both on, imagining two 12-year-olds gaping at us beyond the bushes…perhaps jerking their 12-year-old dicks frantically, fantasizing that they were my boyfriend—that they could make a woman scream like my boyfriend was making me scream. And I clawed at my boyfriend’s back then: that was always the signal to go faster. Sometimes I slapped his ass—like a jockey telling a horse to go faster…and I felt the tension building in my body—in both of our bodies. For those few perfect moments my boyfriend and I were one beast: muscles contracting and flexing, fingers clawing…and then I was screaming and shuddering; and then, after he had had his pleasure, all was still, except for our panting and the sound of wind blowing through the leaves.

  “For a while we dozed in that position, with him lying on top of me. Maybe five or ten minutes passed that way. Eventually, he said that he had to use the bathroom. I wanted him to lie there with me. …Maybe I sensed something was going to happen to him if he wandered into the woods by himself; maybe I simply didn’t want to disturb our comfortable position. ‘Don’t go!’ I found myself begging him. Soon, for whatever reason, I found myself crying—pleading with him not to go. All the old fears from the ravine came flooding back—all the terror and abandonment I had felt for that horrible hour, when I hiked down to the floor of the ravine, thinking that he was dead. He got annoyed with me and my crying, calling me a drama queen; and then, he stormed off into the bushes, totally nude. By now, our fire was only some glowing embers. I strained my eyes, but he had totally disappeared into the darkness. I was alone. I felt naked for the first time—vulnerable. You know that sense you have sometimes, that someone’s watching you? All of a sudden I had this feeling like someone was watching me. It was like a cold breeze blowing down my back. It wasn’t horny Boy Scouts anymore, but someone evil: someone who had entered the woods to hunt and butcher us. …A drifter: some trucker who had hiked from the highway because he knew that this was where all the kids came to screw. All these things went through my head, and I found myself panicking. I wanted to call to my boyfriend, but I was terrified. Maybe a side of me thought that he was already gone: that the drifter had gotten him. I wanted to go to him, but I kept thinking that if the drifter had gotten him, then I’d only be walking into an ambush. All these things went through my head. I was trapped—alone in the middle of nowhere. I suddenly wanted to get dressed—to clothe and protect myself… but my clothes were strewn all over the campsite—where my boyfriend had thrown them while stripping them off. My blouse was on a log over there, and my pants were on a boulder. Both were on the periphery of the campsite, near the bushes. I felt that if I went to pick them up, then the drifter would get me, so I sat there trembling and crying. I kept looking at the place in the bushes where my boyfriend had disappeared, desperate for him to reappear. I tried to listen for the sound of his approach, but between my heartbeat and the wind rustling the leaves, I couldn’t hear anything. In fact, I suddenly realized someone could use that to sneak up on me. I turned and looked over my shoulder, expecting the drifter to be there. I was already prepared to scream; in my mind, he had a knife ready…but when I looked, there was nobody there. To be safe, I scanned all three hundred sixty degrees of the campsite. I saw no one, but every wind-blown branch and shrub seemed to be hiding him. I turned in so many directions that I felt dizzy and sick. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was about to scream out my boyfriend’s name, so that he would come running and chase away all my fears. I wanted to hold him close; and maybe, afterwards, we would make slow, passionate love as to say that everything was forgiven—

  “But that’s when I heard my boyfriend scream. It was short and high-pitched—a terrified scream…and then there was the sound of a body dropping to the ground. At the sound, I dug my fingernails into the earth so forcefully that half of them snapped. When you’re in that kind of situation your mind tries to convince you that you hadn’t heard what you had just heard. I told myself that maybe a branch had fallen or something. I fished around for some explanation, but there was nothing. That’s when I remembered the kitchen knife. I had packed it in my boyfriend’s camping bag. It was only a few feet from where we had laid out the mattress to make love. I sprung at it; soon, I was flinging out pots and clothes—everything—until I had the knife in my hand. I checked the campsite again—in case the drifter had tried to sneak up while I was searching. I still didn’t see anyone, but what you can’t see is always more frightening than what you can. I could sense someone out there. I tried to call to my boyfriend again, but my throat was dry. …Somehow, I was walking toward the bushes. There was something about holding the knife that gave me courage. I didn’t feel invulnerable, but the knife was like one of those religious objects that you put all your faith in—an amulet. I felt that it would take care of everything. …And I knew that there was no running away. Even if I ran in the opposite direction, I would have to enter the bushes anyway, as they surrounded the campsite. …I had no choice but to keep walking.

  “And then, just as I reached the edge of the campsite, a form suddenly appeared in front of me—a man. He leapt at me, like some kind of wild animal. My body reacted—even before I could scream. My arm thrust the knife forward with the force of my full weight. And then I was screaming—from my terror, from a sense of vindication…everything came flowing out of me. The man’s body fell backwards; the knife was still sticking out of his chest. For a moment, I just stood there panting; but when I looked down at the body, I saw my boyfriend lying there. I had killed him. When he cried out earlier, he had probably only banged his foot on a root or something.”

  “What did you do?” Vera whispered.

  “He was already dead by the time I bent down to hold him. The knife went straight through his heart. I pulled out the blade, as if that would take everything back, but that only caused his blood to gush out. I got sprayed with it. It went all over my body, my face, my hair… I tasted it. …For the first ten minutes or so I held him…weeping…begging for forgiveness. I was insane with grief. Either I cried myself to sleep or I passed out. I was roused back into consciousness when he came back to life an hour later.”

  “That didn’t freak you out?”

  “I was delirious by then. We were both dazed: you see how he is when he first comes back. His mind is a blank slate. You can tell him anything and he’ll believe and do it. …He wanted to know where he was, what he was covered in, what had happened…? I was so relieved that he was alive that the only thing I could do was tell him how happy and relieved I was. I kept telling him that over and over again. We fell asleep like that: covered in his blood, holding one another in the bushes.”

  “What did you tell him in the morning?”

  “Oh,” she said with a smile, “when he woke up and saw all the blood, he screamed. He thought I was dead. That’s how he woke me up. What had happened the night before was foggy for both of us: he remembered nothing, and what I remembered seemed impossible.”

  “So, how did you explain the blood?”

  “I told him I must have had my period during the night.”

  “He believed that?”

  She smiled. “You know how men are: once he heard the ‘p-word’ he leapt up and ran down to the river, to bathe. We never talked about it after that.”

  “You said you’ve killed him three times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d you kill him the second time?”

  “Well, what had happened in the woods was so u
nbelievable that it was driving me crazy. All week, it was eating away at me. We’d be eating breakfast, and I’d look over at him, wondering if it had really happened—if I was losing my mind. It was all I would think about. So, yesterday, I killed him to see if it had really happened—if he really couldn’t die.”

  Vera stared at her with a frown: “You killed him just like that?”

  Stacy shrugged: “I’m not saying I was exactly sane. I spent four sleepless days reliving everything that had happened in the woods—asking myself what the hell had happened. At first, I told myself that I had imagined everything. …But I couldn’t ignore the facts. Right after he woke up in the morning and rushed off to the river to wash off the blood, I looked about the campsite. All the evidence was there: the bloody knife, the ransacked hiking bag that I had gotten the knife from…and all the blood that covered me. I was too honest with myself to believe it had been a dream, or that I had only wounded him and not killed him. Even when I looked at him afterwards, he had no knife wound. I knew then that it had all happened: that I had stabbed and killed my boyfriend, and that he had come back to life. …I guess I was like you at first, asking myself how it had happened. I came up with all these bizarre explanations in my mind. That didn’t really get me anywhere—it just separated me from the one reality that mattered: I had killed my boyfriend and he had come back to life. So, when I killed him again yesterday, it was to verify that truth to myself. The bloody knife from the campsite, which I had wrapped in plastic and kept as evidence, was not enough for me anymore. The dried blood really did not look like blood anymore, but like some other brownish film. The only thing left to me was killing him. That was the only thing that would make it real.”

  “How’d you kill him?” Vera asked, suddenly fascinated.

  “I killed him in his sleep. We had seen Eye of the Needle a few days back—that old spy movie where Donald Sutherland played a Nazi assassin. That’s where I got the ice pick idea from. I waited until my boyfriend was asleep, but even after he was snoring, all the ‘sane’ doubts began to enter my mind again: ‘What if it had only been a dream—a delusion. People did not die and come back to life…’ I told myself all these things. Maybe an hour passed with me debating if I should do it or not. I got out of bed and walked around the apartment, talking to myself.”