I
was going to submit this to a Writing Challenge, but it got a little too long and I don't like cutting down work by almost a third, so I thought I'd add it here.
In my opinion it's... OK. Not terrible, not brilliant. There may be a few grammatical errors, as my grammar-editing is very poor. Would love some feedback.
Disclaimer:
The following short story has strong language. It's not a PG, so children, you have been warned!
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She thought he didn’t know!
The bitch he called a wife thought he didn’t know that every Sunday night while Rick was out for drinks, she brought home the vicar that lives across the road and has some midnight fun.
“Hi honey,” said a voice coming from behind Rick. Jane entered the kitchen and walked straight over to the fridge. She was wearing a beautiful, pink, silk dressing gown that ended on her knees, but did not have straps to tie to her stomach, so her still-young thighs and smooth upper-legs were still perfectly revealed whenever she turned in the right direction. He had never got her this dressing gown. In fact, in all the ten years he had known her, Rick had ever seen that particular gown in his life.
He just regarded it with obvious curiosity and continued munching on his cereal.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like shit. I hate Mondays.” Rick replied, keeping a bitter tone in his voice. Jane noticed this tone and hesitated slightly as her hand hovered over the milk.
Rick could imagine exactly what was going through her mind at that moment. She was wondering if her husband had found out about the weekly Christian bash she had while he was out. She was wondering if he had noticed the pair of Calvin Klein boxers that were in his drawer, but weren’t actually his. He had noticed them. Oh yes, Rick noticed the small wooden cross that had been hurriedly stuffed down the sofa.
You doing it on my sofa, bitch? He thought, as he stared at her every movement.
Is that motherfucker making you kneel down and pray while he’s sitting on my sofa? Is he making you fucking scream, you whore?! IS HE MAKING YOU SCREAM?!
Ricks mind screamed the words at the un-faltered Jane, knowing that when he did what he had planned he would really be saying them, and she would sure as hell hear it.
“How was your night?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Again, Jane hesitated.
“Yeah, it was fine. There’s never anything to watch on TV on a Sunday, though.” She brushed back her hair over he ears. That was her tell. Rick had noticed it over the past few days.
This time Rick really was angry.
“You’re lying,” he muttered, barely audible through his anger. His heart doubled it’s speed and the blood in Rick’s head pounded around his ear drums, drowning out his speech to everyone but Jane.
“What do you mean, Rick?” Jane asked as he put down the milk. Again, she brushed away her hair. Now he had her. It was time.
As the enormity of the situation began to unravel in Rick’s mind, he had nothing else to do but laugh. The laugh lacked any humour or any comfort. He wasn’t laughing because he was amused, or because he wanted her o feel better. He was laughing because his anger was at such a threshold he had nothing better to do.
Rick was still laughing as he stood up from the table, knocking his cereal to the floor where the bowl smashed. Jane stumbled backwards as milk engulfed her bare feet. She looked back up to her husband and she realized that the deal was over.
“Look, Rick, I can explain. It was an accident, just…”
“Just nothing!” he said through his laughing fit, “You cheated on me, bitch! YOU FUCKING CHEATED ON ME! I’VE EXPLAINED IT FOR YOU! AND IN HALF THE TIME!”
Rick stumbled out of the kitchen, holding his stomach from where it hurt. He half walked, half fell into the study room, where he opened the drawer to an old wooden cabinet. He rummaged his hand through the mass of papers and old junk, until he came to a box. The lid fell of it as he pulled it from its habitat and a small S&W handgun fell from the open box. Rick bent over and picked up the gun.
The moment he felt the bumpy grip on his fingertips, the laughing stopped. He was in control now. He could do what he wanted.
“Rick, just put it down, and we can talk things through.” Tears were now streaming down Jane’s still-young face as she approached Rick.
The husband she had known for ten years pointed the gun between her legs.
“If you don’t shut up I’ll put something else in that purse of yours, and you can sure as hell bet that it aint Catholic. Now get in the car.”
As Rick walked towards his wife and actually placed the barrel of the gun on her skin, she followed him to the car.
When they were in, she tried yet again to calm him down, but yet again Rick wasn’t having it. He pointed the gun at the passenger seat where Jane sat, and she shut up.
The rest of the journey to the church was silent, apart from the passenger’s sobs. Rick stopped the car in the middle of the road; not giving a shit whom was behind or in front of him. He got out and beckoned for Jane to follow. She did.
“Where the fuck is the vicar?” Rick shouted at a weedy young altar boy, victim to a storm of acne. The boy stood their, staring at the gun with his mouth open wider than the Amazon Basin. Rick cocked the gun against the stunned silence to show he meant business. The weedy teenager pointed a shaking finger over to a door at the right of the chapel.
Rick pushed passed the gazing onlookers that had formed in the aisle and opened the door. Inside the small, colourful room were children, and sitting down with an open Bible at the front of the group was the vicar. He, too, looked shocked, but his shock was different. Is a was a unique mixture of shock, realization, guilt, fear and just a hint of defiance. What a recipe!
Rick lifted the gun to the vicar’s head and pulled the trigger. The moment the violent jolt caused by the bullet had stopped, the corpse that had once been a devoted catholic relaxed with a single neat hole in its head.
“God aint gonna help you in hell, dickhead.”
Rick turned around, no longer with any expression on his face. In front of him was his wife. His beautiful, loving wife stood with tears streaming down her cheeks. Rick’s heart tugged in his chest, trying to break free and go out to Jane, but he wouldn’t let it. Instead, Rick lifted the gun and fired another round at the woman’s stomach. His wife looked down, her expression not changing, as red started to spread through her new pink gown. Just like her new dead lover, she relaxed and slumped to the floor.
Rick turned his head to the kids, some of which were now screaming their heads off.
“Never trust a vicar.”
He was ready to leave. At that moment Rick was ready to leave, and probably rot in prison for his actions. But he didn’t. He never even made it out of the godforsaken room.
A piercing pain sprung up above his ear as the nerves rushed to this new breach of their defences. Rick’s hair felt very wet, and there seemed to be an extra burst of pain every time a breeze hit that side of his head.
Rick turned his neck to face the weedy little altar boy (who was still shocked) and was gripping his hand on something that was poking out of the heartbroken man’s skull.
Just before Rick made the lucky third body to slump to the floor that god had graced, the teenager pulled the large silver cross with a pointy end from his victim’s head.
As Rick’s mind started to fade from its sane state (and alive state) the actual scene registered to him. He had done justice to a vicar in a church, and then God sent an almighty altar-boy to kill him with a replica of the thing that killed his son.
So even vicars can get away with anything. Well ha bloody ha. Were the final thoughts before Rick’s mind faded into nothingness.
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So, hard-core feedback (and soft feedback) is very much appreciated.
Cheers
Nick
