Christopher Knowles loaded his .45 caliber, slammed the chamber closed, and pressed the barrel to his temple. His eyes were stiff, black to the core. He had pale flesh with cracked lips. He breathed fiercely and sucked back the tears. Abruptly he left the apartment and wedged the .45 into the back of his jeans.
The madness was simple. Kick down the door and put a few bullets into both their heads. Payback for the humiliation.
The past mangled his thoughts. He was on the sidewalk, heading into Chinatown. Chris imagined the two of them in bed together and thought about the unholy fornication. He could hear her moans and pleasure. He could see the man’s sweat. Could almost feel the thrusts between her legs. His mind squirmed.
I was the fool, he thought. They played me for the fool!
She had once been his savior. She was so pure in thought and understanding. At one time, the two of them had been inseparable. Perhaps she was naïve to the world; there wasn’t a mean bone in the woman’s body. Of course he never told her the full story. Chris had vowed to spare her the nightmare he grew up with and had become accustomed to. He would never tell her he was prone to murder. It was a family secret.
Chris had seen salvation in her eyes. A second chance. As a result, Chris convinced himself the woman could do no wrong, and as long as she was a part of him, the past faded.
She wasn’t the type of person to pass judgment. She had no care for money or material items. Love would bring them all they would ever need. Chris was certain God would lift them to higher ground.
But he lost his employment, and, in turn, she couldn’t stay with his depression. His past limited the employment opportunities—no high school diploma and no job training. Chris had been employed by the fish market since he was eighteen.
She left him, and, of course, Chris tried his best to keep her from hating him. With no money to buy flowers or gifts as an attempt to rekindle her affection, Chris stirred for something, something from God to help him. But there was nothing, nothing but the silence. After months of separation, Chris started to follow her.
I don’t believe it, he thought. She won’t even take my phone calls.
One afternoon he saw them together. Chris couldn’t stand the forged smile she carried as this new man told stories that made her laugh. Dressed in an Armani suit, it was obvious he could buy her anything she wanted. He could take care of her the rest of her life.
But she was better than the materials, he thought. She doesn’t need a grand mansion, servants, and expensive cars.
Over the months, Chris watched their every move from the shadows as the relationship seemed to blossom into something that was more than just friends.
She lied, he thought. She’s a lying witch, and I can’t stand it.
He used welfare assistance to purchase the .45. Not legally, of course. Chris’s past would never allow him to own a firearm.
The gun became a part of him. He believed the weapon would always be faithful and would participate in any scheme or delusion he conceived. At night he’d sit by the window watching the rolling streets below, spinning the chamber back and forth. Often he put the barrel to his temple, sometimes between his lips. The cold steel was comforting, helping the memories fade. And if he could just pull the trigger and cast the voices out, blow them through the back of his head, maybe then the pain would subside. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to feel any longer. But he never could squeeze the trigger. And even though he tried to push the memories away, he failed.
He had been following the two of them so often he knew their routine—where they met, and how long they stayed. But on the evening of October thirteenth, they detoured from their usual evening movie. They went, instead, to the boyfriend’s apartment. It was easy for Chris to enter the building. There was no doorman, and the security keypad was broken allowing anyone to enter. He’d been in the building before, several times, listening to the man’s phone calls. The walls were thin, and all the noise from within was easy to hear. She told him she loved him, and the rest was depraved sexual lunacy.
He’s treating her like a whore, Chris thought. Such powerful thrusts. The loud slap of flesh against flesh, and bone against bone. He could picture them; after all, he’d studied every inch of them.
She likes it, Chris thought. She friggin’ loves it!
But he didn’t have his gun.
The whole building can hear them. Whores! Friggin’ depraved loons.
He was gripping his hair, whimpering. The sound of those voices consumed him. The beating, the pounding, the thrusts, the sick, depraved lunacy of sexual animalism. Chris bit down on his shirt just to keep himself from screaming as he rushed down the stairway and outside onto the street where he just about sprinted to his apartment.
I’ll be back, he thought. I’m gonna get my new baby, and I’ll be back.
He had broken into tears.