Paul Cleave - Collecting Cooper

And so she had said yes, and three years later he isn’t sure why she did, or how exactly things led to him making a pass at her. Her rejection had hurt, in fact it had hurt so much he wanted her to hurt too. That’s how it started, the need to make her feel bad, to make his wife suffer, only this girl wasn’t his wife, just a stand-in for her. The textbooks would say all that added up was a trigger . He knew it at the time. It started with a ride home and led to him dragging her into his bedroom and tearing off her clothes, forcing himself on her, his hand tight on her face the entire time, covering her eyes so she couldn’t see him, and when it was done he lay there panting with her body pinned beneath him and the realization of what he had done came flooding through.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, rolling off her. His head was buzzing from the alcohol and he felt sick.

She said nothing. She stared at the ceiling and, God, she could go a long time without blinking. Tears had formed a small stream down the side of her face.

“I. . I don’t know what happened,” he said. “Please, please, I’m. . I’m sorry.”

He touched her shoulder. She didn’t flinch away. She didn’t move.

“Are you. . are you okay?”

She wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t move.

He started to panic. She would tell the police what had happened. He would lose his job. He would go to jail. Nobody would publish his book then. He sure as hell wouldn’t win his wife back. And when he came out, what would he do? Nobody would ever respect him. Nobody would hire him. His future self would be lost.

The easiest solution was to kill her. Could he cross that line? He had already crossed one, he could cross another. He thought about bundling her up in the car and dumping her somewhere. That part he could do. The strangling or stabbing part, no, that part he couldn’t do.

“I have money,” he said to her and it wasn’t true. He owned the house with his wife and the mortgage was small, but now that she was gone he was going to have to buy her out for her half. When she wouldn’t move, he sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled his pants back on. “It’s yours. All of it,” he said, and he meant it. He would sell the house and if there was anything left he would give it to her. His chest felt heavy and his breathing was forced, and he bent over and vomited on the floor. Immediately he felt better. Even the buzzing died down by half.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said, wiping his mouth on the bottom of his shirt, but of course he was in no condition to drive. “Let me help you with your clothes,” he said, and he helped her and she did none of the work, just kept laying there, letting him move her, and the clothes didn’t fit that well because they were torn and damaged. “Tomorrow we can go to the bank,” he said. “How much? Oh, God, please, just tell me how much you want?”

She stayed unresponsive and he needed another drink, a drink would help him think, so he went back out to the living room, passing clumps of her hair in the hallway, strands that had been pulled out when he fought her into the bedroom. He leaned against the dining table and knocked back a shot of whiskey, then slowly sipped at another. His hands were shaking and there were spots of blood on his palms. The shot glass kept clicking against his teeth.

To this day he still doesn’t know what she used to hit him. One moment he was leaning, the next the living room floor was rushing up to reach him. His face slapped into it, and when he came to he was tied up. He was spread-eagled, his legs tied to couch legs. His arms were over his head, tied to the TV cabinet. Something was in his mouth. His vision was foggy.

“You want to know how that felt?” she asked. “You want to know what I just went through?”

Her questions were calm. None of the words were stressed. It was like she was asking him if she could get him a drink.

He couldn’t answer. She lifted a pair of pliers in her hand. They were his pliers. She must have taken them from the garage, and he’s never seen them since. She didn’t say anything. She put the pliers onto his testicle and squeezed. She didn’t even hesitate. He heard something pop. Felt every nerve in his body catch fire. He screamed into the rag until he passed out, and when he came to he was alone, untied and bleeding on his carpet. He made his way to the hospital. He kept waiting for the police to arrive, but they never came.

A month passed. The student was reported missing. Nobody knew where she was. He knew he was the reason she had vanished. He thought she had killed herself somewhere. Part of him felt guilty, part of him felt relief, and the part of him that had lost his testicle was angry he hadn’t been given the chance to kill her himself. That first year he thought about her every waking moment. Then he started to think of her less. Two years after the attack and he still hated her, but the anger had dulled, he didn’t think about her constantly. Three years after the attack she was hardly in his thoughts anymore, and then she showed up in the papers last year. Her name was Melissa. She was on the front page, and he was sure it was her. There were differences, of course there were, a person can change a lot physically in three years if they want to, but it was her, and she was doing bad things. He couldn’t understand the psychology. There must have been more to it than his attack on her. He wanted to know. He needed to understand. He wanted to kill her. What she was doing to other people, that was his fault. He knew that. He had made her into a monster. He wanted to feel bad about it too, but he didn’t.

It had all been an accident. It was his wife’s fault. If she hadn’t cheated on him, none of it would have happened.

He wanted to track the girl down but there was no way to do it. He wasn’t an investigator. Seeing her in the papers brought the anger back. He became obsessed again. He hadn’t had a drink in three years, but this made him return to it. He wanted revenge. He wanted that night with her back so he could do it differently. It would start the same but end with his hands around her throat.

He couldn’t take that night back. He would sit in his living room staring at the wall while the bottle of whiskey disappeared in front of him. He would dream about what he would do to her if he found her. He would go to work the following day disguising his hangover, and nobody ever knew what was really going on inside his head.

Then he met Jane Tyrone.

She reminded him in some ways of Natalie Flowers. Same hair, young and pretty, same smile. She worked at his bank. He had gone in to deposit a check. She gave him a big smile that was part of service. He wanted the service to include seeing her naked. He wanted it enough that he followed her after work into a parking building in town. It was an impulsive thing to do, but also very simple. Just a matter of timing, really, as long as nobody else was around, and there wasn’t. He walked up to her while she was unlocking her car. He smiled at her and she smiled back and she didn’t recognize him. Then he reached behind her and banged her head down into the roof, once, twice, and a third time for luck. She was out cold. He put her into the trunk of her car and left her there for fifteen minutes until he returned with his own. He had to park a few spaces down, and he killed five minutes reading the newspaper until again there was nobody around, and then he made the switch.

He kept her alive for a week. That hadn’t been the plan. There had been no plan, really. He had woken up that morning with no intent of harming anybody, and had ended it at the institution with her locked in a padded cell. He thought he would use her and dispose of her the way he should have disposed of that bitch three years earlier.