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His fist smashed into Cheryl’s skull right behind her eye, in the temple. Tim’s knuckles connected with the softest part of her head.
One time. Two times. Three times.
Damage was done.
Cheryl stopped moving.
She whimpered with the first punch.
She cried with the second.
She started vomiting with the third.
Cheryl stopped moving.
Tim stopped breathing.
Too.
Tim couldn’t remember how many times he had hit her.
It might have been more than three.
It probably was.
Tim really only remembered the first. He only stopped because his right hand was hurting and the left was starting to pull hair out of Cheryl’s head.
He was breathing heavy, hard, sweating, trembling.
The worst of it was he knew Cheryl was dead.
The best of it was Tim felt alive.
Maybe that was the worst of it, too.
Tim felt this way when he used a magnifying glass to concentrate the sunlight on ants and watch them fry on the sidewalk.
He felt this way when he used duct tape or glue to stick firecrackers on to the backs of frogs, light the fuse and watch them hop away to their incredibly mushy end with parts flying everywhere in a hot, flash of death.
Tim felt this way when he was hunting with his father.
It wasn’t like he enjoyed spending time with his dad. However, Tim could swallow his disgust at the white shirts and skinny black ties for a day in the woods with a gun in his hands.
Tim never understood the concept of “buck fever,” the feeling that a person couldn’t kill anything as beautiful as a deer when he was looking at the animal through the scope on his rifle.
Tim loved it.
It made him feel so alive to have the power to make something so dead.
He felt like he was sucking the soul right of the deer.
It was never a problem to squeeze instead of jerk the trigger.
Tim never wanted the feeling to end. The long, steady pull of the trigger back, bringing the soul of the deer into his, squeezing the trigger, the explosion when the hammer fell.
He could almost see the bullet fly.
When it hit, Tim understood the meaning of the word, ecstasy.
Then came the worst moment. It was the yang to the yin of ready, aim, fire. Killing was good. Death was different.
When he realized the ant was dead. When it dawned on him the frog could not be put back together. The instant Tim saw the bullet, strike in slow motion behind the deer’s shoulder.
When the deer fell, when the ant smoked, and when the frog splattered.
Tim felt terrible. Sick.
Vomit. Snot. Tears. It all came out. Emotion.
He never wanted any of them to die.
He had broken them.
He always wanted to put them back together.
Tim never could.
But still. It felt good.
Tim knew he was never going to be able to put Cheryl back together. He saw her face. The bloody, mushy, pulp of flesh that looked more like a frog after it exploded than the soft, white virginal face that he had turned to his for their first kiss a few weeks ago.
It had all gone wrong again.
This is wrong, wrong, wrong, Tim heard his voice screaming inside his head. He screamed out loud in harmony with his conscience, wailing, louder and louder.
Pain. Pain. Pain.
Yet, it was a good pain. There was something about this that made Tim feel so alive. He felt so good, so pure, and so powerful.
If only he could put her back together.
Tim called his best friend — his only friend — Paul, the night that Cheryl died, and said he needed help, real help. Help like he had never needed before.
Tim didn’t ask. Tim demanded.
The only thing Tim could do when he realized Cheryl was broken beyond repair was to figure out what to do with her. How to get rid of her. Tim had never had a real girlfriend before. He had never dumped a girl before. This would be a learning experience times two.
But first he had to get her out of the park.
Thinking quickly had never been Tim’s forte and it certainly was not this night. He and Cheryl sat together for at least an hour, her head in his lap, Tim stroking her hair, slowly, lovingly, until he started to smell her.
He eased himself out from under Cheryl’s lifeless head, zipped his pants back up, hoped his shirttails would cover the stain, and slowly got out of the seat so her skull wouldn’t bounce.
Outside the car, like a cat, crouching, looking to the left, the right and then closing the door on his hand.
Damn.
Tim’s fingers were crushed. He was off balance. When he fell against the car, Tim pushed the door into his fingers.
Tears in his eyes, snot starting to drip out of his nose, he got the door opened, then fell against it again as he slowly slid down to the ground, leaning back against the car.
Tim held his damaged fingers, eyes closed, tears burning behind his eyelids for so long he nearly fell asleep.
If Tim had been able to go to sleep, it at least would have been an escape. The dreams that he lived for would have entered his mind. Tim could have drifted off into the fantasy land that he had created for himself.
But, he was not going to be able to book passage for that journey tonight, at least, not yet.
Maybe later.
Maybe another time.
Tonight there would be no escape.
He had to get moving.
Tim sniffed, wiped his eyes with the back of his uninjured hand, carefully pushed himself up.
I’m like a one-armed paper hanger with a dead body. That’s what my dad would say.
The fingers on his left hand were throbbing with pain and were already swelling.
Time to get busy.
Tim stood up and walked over to the passenger side to pull Cheryl out.He didn’t look at the Timex on his wrist or the clock on the dash, but Tim knew it had to be after midnight. There had been two other cars with lovers who had better experiences parked about fifty yards away.
Everybody always does better, Tim thought as he took time to stew over this latest bit of bad luck.
If only I could turn my mind off.
Did they see?
They were gone.
Why take a chance?
That’s what I think.
Tim decided to worry about witnesses, later. He would have to deal with reality, first
Unfortunately, reality was never his forte
Escape, tonight would have to wait.
He knew he was going to have to call Paul.
Tim opened the door, reached inside, and banged his forehead on the doorframe.
Damn.
This was not going well at all.
This was not going to be easy.
Cheryl was already turning cold.
Her eyes were open.
Good God!
Tim never expected that.
She was looking right at him.
Baby blues burning a hole into his soul.
He choked back a cup of hot, battery acid vomit, smacked the back of his head on the door frame again, and reeled back into the asphalt parking lot, retching out undigested Bloody Mary, watching it flow downhill, without an umbrella.
Catching his breath, wiping the tears from his eyes, Tim got back to work and with two fingers closed Cheryl’s eyes.
She was so beautiful. It was a real tragedy that she broke.
Tim needed help.
Now.
Tim sat Cheryl up in the passenger seat, kicked it back into a reclining position, tried to make her look like she was sleeping, while he started walking.
Fast.
Got to call Paul.
We’ll take care of her, together.