FACTUALITY

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          You’re so full of shit. And he knows it. Every word out of your mouth. To you, “Liar, liar,” is a compliment.

          “It doesn’t count,” you say. “If you know I’m lying. That cancels it out. That makes it,” you say, triumphantly, “the truth!”

          In disbelief, he shakes his head. Eyes wide with pain, like how could he have ever believed you? Stood for this for so long. Maybe loved you.

          Here in this prison, you sit across from him, shackled. Laughing.

          “So you did kill her,” he says, through gritted teeth.

          “No.”

          “Stop lying!”

          Like the truth would make his wife less dead.

          Behind him, the muscular female guard looks ready for anything. Like a chick that tough could restrain you. Bound or not, you could chew off his face like Hannibal Lector.  

          Nah, you love that face. Long-lashed, dark eyes; dimpled chin. Crumpling now, as he tries not to cry.

          That bloody mess you left in his house. Chunks of his wife, all over. Blonde hair matted with gore. How you got past their dog Fang made cops wonder.

          Maybe Fang loved you more.

          Maybe Fang still does.

          His hands are trembling. Like they’re itching to choke you.

          “I trusted you,” he says. “When you said you were sick.”

          Way back, you’re not sure when, he took care of you. Fed you spoonfuls of soup. Zipped up your hoodie to keep you warm.

         Now he chokes back a sob. “You swore you were dying.”

         Down the hall, they’ve got it all planned. How, or when, you’re not sure. But it’s coming. For what you did, you’ll die, all right. Lucky to have a mock trial. In this new, “dystopian” world you can’t lie your way out of.

          “I am dying,” you say.

         They’ll fry you. Or hang you. Maybe stick you somewhere with this guy, alone.

Except for the guard, you are alone.

          The guard is smirking now.

          As she turns and leaves, he gets up.

           He’s taller than you thought. But you were usually laying down.

           Last time, in a sleazy motel bed in Jersey. Sun streamed in through crooked blinds. He couldn’t get enough of you. Even on suspect sheets you nearly yanked off the bed. When the text came a few minutes later, his screen lit up on the nightstand, near you. Caller ID: “My love.”

           Not even her name. What did you expect . . . “Wife”?

           “My love . . .”

           That’s why you did it. You were so jealous!

           Here in the cell, he gets closer.

            As he reaches for your throat, truths come tumbling out. “OK, I did kill her! And I was never sick. I’m . . . not . . . dying.”

            For the first time, he smiles. Before he starts squeezing.

            “Never?”

 

 

THE END

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     Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. 

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     Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.