Speak No Evil Read Free

dying flower to another, searching for something it couldn’t find, its black-and-orange wings pumping up and down. When it finally landed on a wilted petunia near him, he leaned forward and captured the creature in his fist. It trembled against his closed hand, the insect’s little body moving frantically.
    The screen door slammed behind him and he jumped.
    “You can go back in now, kid,” the man said as he walked down the stairs.
    “When my daddy comes home he’s going to kill you.”
    The man laughed as he got into his truck and drove away.
    He pouted and thought about what Jason’s mom said. Maybe next time that man came over
he
could cut off all his fingers.
    Something caught his eye on the sidewalk where Jason had fallen. Curious, he crossed the dry lawn and squatted. On the rough surface of the cement a layer of skin and some blood dried in the summer sun. He pictured Jason’s bleeding face and the large scrape on the side of his head.
    Cool.
    Something moved in his hand. He looked at his closed fist, then opened it just a bit, a bug curled in his sweaty palm. He picked it up by a wing and it tried to fly away. Grabbing both the butterfly’s wings, one in each hand, he watched the legs and antennae frantically reaching out, trying to get away.
    He was fascinated by the struggle. So much movement, but it wasn’t getting anywhere.
    Slowly, he pulled the wings from the body of the bug. One came off clean, but the other tore. The dying bug fell to the sidewalk, its body jumping, squirming.
    He stared, fascinated and detached at the same time, until what remained of the butterfly stopped moving. It took several minutes. Peering closely, he realized it wasn’t dead. He pushed it with his finger; it jumped once, twice, then stopped.
    He brought the pieces of the butterfly into the kitchen to find an old jar to keep them in.
                      
    The bug was not much more than dust twelve years later, but the old mayonnaise jar still rested on his nightstand.
    It had taken him nearly two hours to remove all traces of the slut from his bedroom. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hadn’t realized she’d be so messy. She’d shit in his bed and the smell was god-awful. Why’d she have to go do that? He’d taken her to the toilet several times a day.
    He’d bought the sheets and blanket especially for the weekend, so he stuffed them into a thirty-three-gallon trash bag.
Heavy duty.
What a joke. The slut had torn the first bag when she tried to get out—he’d needed to use three just to make sure she couldn’t break them.
    Every detail had been carefully planned. He washed her body, getting rid of any evidence of himself, though he’d taken great care all weekend. He wrapped her in the plastic bags so he could fully immerse himself in her death, at the last minute putting a blanket on top of her body.
    Then he laid on her, holding her tight. She bucked beneath him, her body fighting for air, to escape. For a long minute he lost himself in an odd state of hot ecstasy and cold fear.
    It really didn’t take that long for her to die. In fact, it was rather anticlimactic. After two days of taking her to the brink of death and back, trying to figure out what made her scream and what didn’t, her death was . . . boring.
    She died too quickly and he was left unsatisfied. It made him angry. Next time he needed to think of something else, maybe an airhole in the bag. Something he controlled. Or maybe he’d do it like the movie, except he’d wrap her in some sort of plastic wrap. Most of her, anyway. He’d think more about that. It would certainly keep her clean. And if she shit, it wouldn’t get all over everything.
    He’d watched all those forensics shows on television and he was paranoid about the cops finding him with all their tricks. Otherwise, he would have used his hands. He’d wanted to, just like the film. Squeeze, release, squeeze, release. Give her just enough air, then cut it off.