Chapter twenty-four:
She’s out cold, again, and I feel like total shit.
I obviously didn’t mean to hurt her.
But I can’t deny she didn’t deserve it.
I find a pair of socks in a forgotten laundry pile by the window, and I screw one of them up and shove it in her slack mouth in case she wakes up and freaks out. I don’t want her screaming for help, only to realize it’s me, and then feel stupid.
See? I’m a thoughtful man, Carrie. Even now, after everything you’ve done, I’m thinking about your feelings, not my own.
I go to the kitchen and turn the faucet on, and then I let the water run over my bloody arm. It hurts and I grit my teeth against the pain.At least it’s not your stomach, Ethan,I think. Now that would have been a lot worse. And I’m grateful for that small thing, at least.
I grab the bloody dishtowel and wrap it back around my hand. I search all of her cupboards three times over but can’t find any Band-Aids or bandages or painkillers. And I think,come on, Carrie, what the hell is wrong with you? Everyone has fucking Band-Aids!
But apparently not Carrie, because she’s a useless whore.
I take a steady breath and apologize to her, even though she can’t hear me, because that wasn’t a nice thing to think. Even if it is true.
And I am starting to believe that it’s true. She is useless. She is dirty and untidy, she has terrible taste in men, terrible taste in décor. She doesn’t even own a first-aid kit. Her cupboards have hardly any food in them, and her coffee is shit.
I swallow down my anger, because I really do feel very angry now. Thoughts of all the things Carrie is doing wrong, and has done wrong, are surfacing, and those thoughts make me mad because she shouldn’t be like that. She should be like the version of her that I’ve had in my head for the past twenty years.
She is almost perfect in my head.
But, I sigh, in real life she is far from it.
I go back to the living room and check on her. I’ve tied her back up. And I didn’t like doing it, but I can’t risk her doing that again. She’s a danger to me and herself. It’s just how she’s always been. She was always a ticking time-bomb. That’s how Mom described it.
‘It’s only a matter of time,’she said so many times to me.
I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now.
I get it now.
You’re a ticking time-bomb, Carrie,I think.You’re dangerous.
I look at my hand, the blood starting to seep through the dishtowel already, and I shake my head. Now I have no choice but to go out. To leave her here all alone.
I swipe my arm across the filthy kitchen surface, swiping her mail and old newspapers onto the floor.
And then I feel bad again. Not that I should feel bad, because she stabbed me, not the other way around.
She fucking stabbed me!
Anger spreads through my insides and my vision turns red. I’m shaking with the anger, with the need to lose control. I don’t like the feeling. And I hate the fact that Carrie has made me feel this way.
I close my eyes and begin to slowly count to ten like I was taught.
One African Elephant Walking Very Nicely. Two Australian Coyotes Prowling Through The Night. Three Jungle Cats Slinking Through The Dark. Four Busy Beavers Building Their…
The anger subsides and I feel more in control. The red rage slinks away like the jungle cats and I can breathe again.
“Okay, think, Ethan. Think,” I say to myself.
Carrie is knocked out. She’s tied up. What trouble can she get in? I decide. I check the time on my watch. It’s early, eight thirty. Stores will be opening now. A pharmacy will be around here somewhere.
I find her purse by the front door and look inside. There’s a set of keys with a troll keyring attached to it. It has green hair. It’s an ugly keyring and I wonder why the hell she has it on her keys, but whatever.
