David H. Hendrickson has been a writer for many, many years, not only as a fiction writer, but writing thousands of sports articles. He knows writing. And, it seems from this story, he knows other things as well. Nightmarish things.

His short fiction has appeared in Best American Mystery Stories, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Heart’s Kiss, and numerous anthologies, including over a half dozen issues of Fiction River and just about every issue of this magazine so far. Check it all out at hendricksonwriter.com/

She always said that I had a mind of my own. Never in her wildest dreams, or nightmares, could she have guessed how right she was.

It is why I creep toward her now. I am drawn to her even though she plunged the butcher’s knife into Jimmy’s chest so many times. Even though, as his life ebbed away, she performed her final act of revenge, savagely cutting me and then waving me in front of his face. As blood dripped onto his nose and forehead, she screamed words of vengeance and hurled me toward the foot of the bed.

Sobbing, she gulped down an entire bottle of pills, then climbed back onto the bed and pushed him away with the fierce jab of one foot. Jimmy landed on the floor with a loud thump.

Her tears dried. She drifted off.

One final night from which she wouldn’t wake up. The finale for the three of us.

Not the threesome Jimmy and I had been hoping for.

I will soon be as dead as he is, but there is life in me still. Even while I am wracked with pain, the nerve endings screaming out their anguish while blood leaks out of me, I am still alive. Enough life remains, I believe, for one last time. A final pilgrimage, if you will.

And so I creep toward her. Slow and caterpillar-like. Hunching myself up and then springing forward. Just like a fat caterpillar. Hunch up and spring forward; hunch up and spring forward.

Homeward bound.

The pain is unbearable, but I must push that aside. And so I think of her. Not the way that Jimmy would have: the flawless complexion, blue eyes, and long black hair. My thoughts of her are more primitive and elemental; my needs are more basic. I crave her warmth, the way she squeezes me in her loving embrace. It is that special place which beckons. Those are the thoughts I use to ignore the searing pain.

And so I inch onward.

In the beginning, she loved me. She worshipped me, if I may indulge my well-endowed ego and say it. She only began to hate me when she found out about Cindy. That was a mistake. Not Cindy, of course. Cindy was worth it, as were all the others. Oh, yes! The mistake was getting caught.

“Why am I not enough?” she had asked through the tears.

Jimmy made some reply, but I didn’t understand the question. Enough was not a concept I was familiar with. I would do my life’s work, that which I was created to achieve. I would sow the seed. And with gusto. Tonight’s discovery about Jennifer, however, will be the end of us all.

Even knowing my fate, I press onward. I will go out with the figurative smile on my face.

Almost there. I can sense her sweet aroma, smelling it in my primitive way. My excitement builds; my energy is renewed.

I redouble my efforts, quickening the pace like a runner making a finishing kick near the finish line. I wriggle and writhe, drawing myself closer, even as my mounting enthusiasm makes the wriggling more difficult.

Closer.

And closer.

Almost to the point of contact.

Oh, that sweet scent. Intoxicating. Thrilling. I can never get enough of it.

I propel myself forward that final fraction of an inch to the finishing line, that sweet, moist enclave of exquisite beauty where she will welcome me in her loving embrace.

One last burst of energy and then—

I slam into some barrier; it stops me dead in my tracks. The jarring collision sends shudders down my full length.

I have reached my destination only to find the door slammed in my face. Her moist tissue beckons me, promising to envelop me in her love. Instead, however, I am denied access to my rightful home.

Again and again, I hurl myself at the barrier, so caught up in the frenzy of my lust that I am oblivious to the damage I might be inflicting on myself.

Slowly, I realize that the barrier is a fabric of some kind. I conclude in anguished frustration that she is wearing panties.

So close and yet so far. The sad anthem of my kind.

She is not moving. Perhaps the pills have already sent her to join Jimmy in death.

I, however, am not dead yet. And I have come too far to give up now.

If she is dead, then I will give her no final spasm of pleasure. The pleasure will be all mine. I will spawn one last time and then remain there in my final resting place.

I summon my energies. Getting past the panties will be difficult, but I will succeed or die trying.

I am now like salmon trying to leap a waterfall. The fabric holds me back, but I leap and leap and then leap again. Futile. Pointless.

But the urge to spawn drives me onward even when there is no hope.

And then she stirs.

Maddened with desire, I leap and this time I land on her inner thigh and slide against the elastic of her panties. Intoxicated by that wonderful aroma, I wriggle madly. If only I can slip past the elastic. I beseech the gods of Eros. One last time, please.

But the gods of Eros appear not to be listening. I wriggle and writhe, flooded with desire, in a vain attempt to breach the elastic. I flop against her inner thigh until once again she stirs.

Her muscles tighten. I can feel them harden against my skin. I wriggle again. She grows rigid and then sits bolt upright.

She screams.

I feel her spring from the bed. I sense her standing beside me. Her screams are panicked now, nightmarish.

In my mind’s eye I can see her eyes wide with horror, her tonsils vibrating with those screams. I recall with pleasure sensing those tonsils up close on many a night. Hey, there, nice to see you again. Prepare to be drenched with my love.

Oh, yes. Target practice with the tonsils. Oh, yes.

But then she shatters my reverie, grasping me and hurling me through the air. I crash sideways against what I can only assume is the wall. I plummet to the floor.

My nerve endings are jangling anew. The blunt trauma floods me with pain. I feel my life slipping away.

And then she is gone.

I sense that she has run into the adjoining bathroom, from which emanates horrible retching sounds. My instincts guess that she is now ridding herself of those pills that had been sending her into a final sleep.

If not for me.

I have saved her. The salmon’s final, futile attempt to spawn saved her. I had become her mortal enemy, yet my lust saved her life.

My own strength ebbs. The pain dulls. I don’t have much time left now.

And yet, without my even realizing it, I feel myself creeping toward the bathroom. I’ll never reach her, but it is what I was created to do. And so I inch forward, ignoring the scraping of the rug, rough on my skin, until I sense her padding back toward me.

She grasps me, squeezing so fiercely that her fingernails dig into my flesh. Holding me at arm’s length, she carries me out of the bedroom and into what I sense to be the kitchen.

And then I sense a sound that fills me with terror.

I contort myself in a frenzied attempt to escape her grasp. I try to wriggle free, but her grip becomes all the more fierce. Her fingernails dig ever deeper into my flesh. I am like a small animal caught in a predator’s jaws, fighting to get free even while knowing that the end is near.

That sound. That awful, chilling sound. I cannot bear the thought.

And then she thrusts me into the grinding roar of the garbage disposal.