Gloria Peters had a secret.
She was going to kill her boyfriend.
She despised him. The fact that she had caught him with Sylvan was the last straw. She was going to put an end to his miserable life and then she was going to kill herself.
She took another large gulp of the whiskey as she sharpened the knife. Tears streamed down her face when she thought of the abuse that she had put up with over the previous months.
She wanted him to pay.
In the beginning of the relationship, his little habits seemed charming. She was able to overlook the drinking and gambling. She was even able to overlook the fact that the fat arsehole was a complete and utter slob.
They had only been seeing each other for eight months. She had met Burt at a bar.
He was adorable at first. She loved the lustful way that he would wink at her and nuzzle her neck as he rubbed his hand over her arse. She loved the attention.
It was after the initial ‘honeymoon’ phase when Gloria noticed subtle changes in Burt’s behaviour.
He had come home drunk one day and as he groaned loudly he collapsed onto the couch and announced in a loud slurring voice that he had retired. Gloria immediately saw red.
“Retired! Retired from what? You don’t work. Have you won the lottery or something?”
“Nup! I ’ave decided that I’m gonna stay home and look after Sylvan and her brat. Besides, I worked six years part time. I’ve earned my retirement.”
“Is that so? And what are we going to eat? Do you expect me to go out and bring home the money to feed you and that little bitch and her bastard kid?
You can just go and fuck off, I’m not working to support you lot.”
She was taken completely by surprise when Burt heaved himself off the couch and in one swift movement had made his way across the room and had back handed her hard across the face, causing her to lose balance. She collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor.
As she lay on the ground bleeding from her nose, she cringed at the sight of the drunken slob of a man leaning over her and screaming at her like a mad man.
From that day on she had been frightened of Burt and had dreaded the prospect of him coming home each night drunk and full of abuse.
She hated herself for staying with the monster but at the same time knew that she couldn’t leave him.
Who else would have this hag?
She used to ask herself whenever she saw her reflection in the mirror.
It was the sight of his naked bloated body on top of her only daughter that had caused the change in her.
He had forced her to throw her only daughter and grandson out onto the street. She could feel her life spiralling out of control. She had lost herself to this monster. She could no longer stand his abuse.
He had to die.
She had taken a few days to summon up her courage and to plan the murder. Tonight was the night. She would wait for him to pass out in one of his drunken stupors and then she would slash his throat.
After she had taken care of Burt, she would run herself a nice deep bath, slash her wrists, and then she would lay in the bath and let the blood drain out of her as she slowly went to sleep from the combination of alcohol and sleeping pills.
She had just finished sharpening her knife when she heard the back door close. She carefully put the knife on the counter and called out.
She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a glass and pushed through the kitchen door.
“Burt? Is that you? Do you want me to get you a…”
She inhaled sharply when she saw the horribly scarred face of the man who had just slashed Burt’s throat and had tossed him to the ground like discarded trash.
She screamed with horror as she watched the blood gush from the gaping wound in Burt’s throat as he thrashed helplessly around on the tattered carpet, grasping his throat with both hands in a futile attempt to keep his life from slipping away.
Instinctively, she threw the bottle at the killer and turned on her heels.
Dizzy from the alcohol, she staggered back into the kitchen and fell onto the floor and started scrambling on her hands and knees, desperately looking for some escape from the monster.
Adrenalin pumped through her and she started sobbing. She felt her hair being pulled. She was jerked by the hair onto her feet, the blood slickened blade pressed hard into her throat.
She inhaled sharply as her hair was pulled harder. She could feel the fetid wet breath on her ear as the killer spoke softly.
“If you scream again I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
Gloria slowly and carefully nodded as she felt the pressure of the knife increase against her throat.
“I just want to know where your daughter and the boy are.”
This request from the monster activated her genetically programmed Mother’s instinct to protect their offspring.
Hormones raced through her body priming her to fight. She knew however, that she was in an unwinnable position. She knew what she had to do.
She shook as she grabbed the wrist of the monster which held the blade.
“Go fuck yourself! I’ll never tell you where Sylvan and Justen are.
“Go ahead…kill me,” she said quietly and calmly, as she forcefully pulled the killers hand across her throat, opening up her carotid artery.
She collapsed to the ground slipping out of her assailants grasp and smiled as she felt the life drain from her.
“You fucking stupid bitch!” were the last words that Gloria Peters heard as she slipped into oblivion.
* * *
Stringer sat shaking his head as he cleaned the blood from his knife. He had seen some screwed up people in his life, but he had never seen anyone so eager to die before.
He finished cleaning his knife and started thinking about his next move as he dragged the corpse of the woman into the living room and laid her out beside her boyfriend.
He looked around at the shit-hole that the corpses had been living in and grunted in disgust.
He methodically went through any drawers he could find.
He finally found a tattered photo album that had been used to prop up one leg of the coffee table.
As he sucked on another nicotine infuser he pored through the photos. The most recent one was of a birthday party.
The young blonde girl in the photo looked happy as she blew out the candles on a cake with twelve candles on it. The back of the photo had the words Sylvan’s 12th birthday scrawled across it.
He went to his brief case that he had left just outside the back door and pulled out a pocket scanner to scan the photo.
He pushed a button on the side of the scanner and the photo appeared inside his neural net.
He manipulated the photo and aged the young girl’s features. He knew the age of the boy. He guessed that Sylvan would be in her early twenties and adjusted the image to reflect that age.
After manipulating the photo he transmitted it back to the scanning device and pushed a second button and grabbed the printed image as it spat out of the side of the unit.
He smiled. He knew that with the image he could use his neural net face recognition software to find the girl. There were thousands of closed circuit security cameras across the city to monitor.
Satisfied that he had a plan to go forward with, he sat back on the couch and stared at the blood on his hands.
He got up and walked into the filthy, mildew ridden bathroom and washed his hands. He then dried his hands and went back to his brief case and put back the scanner with the photo.
He then pulled out another micro anti matter explosive, flipped the cap off it and grabbed his briefcase as he hurried back to his car.
He didn’t bother to wait around for the explosion.
As he drove through the streets, Stringer’s thoughts went over what had transpired.
He was puzzled that the girl and her son were not at the old lady’s house.
He started running through possible scenarios in his mind. He realised that the girl had somehow disappeared between her apartment and her Mother’s house.
Where could she have disappeared? Did she change her mind and go back to the apartment? What changed her mind? Did she somehow find out that the kid had gone back to the apartment?
There were too many uncertainties, and they were the one thing that Stringer despised.
He made a decision. He would retrace his steps and return to the apartment. At the very least, he could hide out there and wait.
He was very good at waiting.
As he drove through the rain slickened streets he slowly relaxed as another nicotine neural infuser dissolved in his mouth.
He blinked slowly to allow his eyes to focus as they stared out through the smear of road grime and rain droplets. He silently worked through his plan to find Sylvan and the boy.
He flashed images of Sylvan up into his periphery and studied her features as he drove.
Concentrating on the task, he failed to notice the crumpled form of the young girl who lay unconscious on the bus shelter bench, or the black van that had just pulled up beside her.