the cicada's rattle

Considering I had killed her earlier in the day, I was not expecting Molly’s visit that night.

I had fallen asleep surprisingly easily given the day’s events, exhaustion apparently winning out over the continual loop of replays going through my head.  There was a certain disbelief running around in my thoughts – after all, I’d murdered someone today.  And not a random person this time: Molly, of all people.  Shouldn’t I feel a sense of accomplishment?  It surprised me that there was not more.  I wasn’t grief-stricken, wasn’t frightened; not at all concerned about a knock on the door from authorities.  But then, why should I be?  I had planned it meticulously, followed my procedure to the letter, encountered no complications.  Under different circumstances Molly might even be proud of me.  The only thing difficult left to do was to act surprised when I heard about it on the news.  Oh, and burn the note cards.  (I should make another list.  First thing in the morning!)

My sleep was a deep and coma-like, absent any dreams.  After a few hours a soft, midnight breeze snuck its way into the room from the partially open window.  The cold air chilled me deeply, my only protection being boxer shorts and a tee shirt.  Wasn’t I covered when I lay down?  Another shudder sent me scrambling while a hushed “goddammit” erupted involuntarily from my mouth.  Without my glasses and with only a blue-green glow from my bedside clock I could not see well enough to realize the covers were on the floor at the foot of the bed.  More asleep than awake, the necessity to bring warmth to my body was transformed by my subconscious into an irrational, panicked frenzy.  Hands flailing frantically, I spun around on the bed on all fours while another chill covered me in goose bumps.  Facing the foot of the bed I dropped to my stomach on the mattress, yelping as my arms draped over the edge and my hands swept the floor in a desperate attempt to overcome fright with heat and more sleep.

My hands landed on the interlaced pile of sheets and quilt, and I pulled them back onto the bed and over me, my racing heartbeat slowing to its normal pace.  Consciousness took over just enough to allow the realization that everything was normal, everything was ok.  (That is, other than the fact that I was now a murderer.  But I could deal with that in the morning.  I was warm now).  On my side with the covers up to my neck and tightly tucked around me I pressed my head deeply into the pillow, pulled my legs up into a fetal position for warmth and closed my eyes.  I let out a long sigh and quickly went back to sleep – totally oblivious to Molly sitting in the chair across the room, watching me with her legs crossed and hands folded over her chest.

She stared at me for several minutes, slowly shaking her head at the fact that I was still cold.  “Idiot never did have the sense to close the window,” she thought.  “He’ll lay there for hours shivering rather than spending two seconds to close the fucking window.  How did I end up marrying this asshole?”

She rose and quietly walked across the room.  She was slim and short, just under five and a half feet tall.  Petite, but well proportioned, she had a practiced, perfect posture and walked with the grace of a dancer.  Although her short haircut rarely varied in length she changed its color often – her one form of rebellion.  But rebellion only went so far with Molly and the color was never something garish or unnatural.  This night it was a dark brown with a slightly reddish hue, not that you could tell in the dim light of the clock alarm.  I never knew her natural color.

She was wearing flats on her feet, a knee-length navy skirt and beige top (she would have corrected me: “ecru”).  She looked lovely as always.  Well, except for the obvious trauma she’d suffered: a deep, open slice across her neck and many stab wounds to her upper torso.  Her face was adorned with purple, swollen bruises nearly shutting both eyes.  Blood still trickled from some of the gashes and each step she took sent a small squirt onto the floor from her neck.

Odd.  I’d poisoned her to death.

Reaching the window she grabbed the handle of the casement and held it as if trying to decide what to do.  She thought back on our time together with mixed emotions.  Sometimes fun, sometimes infuriating, always interesting.  How HAD we ended up together?  And how had the love and excitement that characterized our early relationship dissolved to the point where true violence would enter?

She was always the strong one, always certain of her next move whether related to her career or just making dinner.  And she was completely uncompromising, never allowing even minor deviations from anything she’d planned.  At first this had been perfect for me, the unprepared one.  In those days I just let life happen to me without looking beyond the next week.  This always exasperated her, but it also gave her the chance to control our lives.  Whether it was deciding the city in which we lived or that hangers should be oriented to the left when facing the front of the shirt, she got to be the boss.  The part she hadn’t counted on was that some of this would inevitably rub off on me.  Eventually I’d learn to plan ahead.

Darkness seemed to envelop the room’s blue glow, a sense of tunnel vision taking over as she stared at me.  Perhaps, she thought, it was time to rethink her severity, her life’s rigueur mortis.  Had she been too hard?  Too obsessed with perfection?  Was it possible that she could slow down, celebrate the uncertainty I brought to our lives and revel in the surprises?  Was it possible to find again the warmth, the joy and even the cooperation of our early love?  Could she look upon the neurotic, goofy man she saw shivering in the bed with passion instead of disgust, or was that too much to ask given the nagging spread of blood that now covered her chest?

She still held the stainless steel window handle and noticed it had not warmed with her touch.  Circumstances had truly created a reality out of her persona.  She stared at me as another draft brought a trembling to my sleeping form.  Glancing to the window, Molly hesitated for a moment.  Rather than shutting it she opened it further, the mini-blinds rattling like a cicada as more chill air flooded the room.

“You ruined one of my favorite blouses.  I hope you freeze to death, asshole.”