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Rock, Paper, Scissors

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It took her the better part of the afternoon to drag him from the trunk of her car and down into the basement.  He was heavier than she remembered.  As she tied him to the post, she knelt down and looked at him again to be sure.  But she was sure.  She knew from seeing him again that morning at the gas station that it was him.  He with the blue eyes and the white teeth and the neatly trimmed beard.

 

She had not been this close to his face since the time he lay on top of her, pushing into her, with his hand over her mouth and the other pushing up her leg.  His neatly trimmed beard stinking like cigarettes and Tex-Mex.

 

She went upstairs and pulled the car into the garage and made sure all of the lights were off and the doors were locked.  She did not want anyone to think she was home.

 

“Sara’s gone for the weekend.”  They would think.  “Sara’s gone.  She must be out.  Sara’s gone away.”  She giggled that last part over and over again. “Sara’s gone away.”

 

She went into the garage and took out the suitcase and walked down to begin.

 

He woke up from the sound of her on the stairs.

 

“What?  Wh . . .”

 

Before he could go any further, she began.

 

“Rock, Paper, Scissors.”

 

“What?”

 

She repeated slower.  “Rock . . . Paper . . . Scissors.”

 

He started asking questions and talking too fast and pulling at his ropes and yelling.  She ignored all of it and instead pulled the rock from the suitcase.  It was something she found out by the park a week after it happened with him.  It was not a very large rock but it was just heavy enough to work and still light enough for her to carry.

 

She walked over to him and undid his pants.  He moved away from her and tried to turn his body away but the ropes held.  She pulled down his underwear and looked at him for a moment.

 

All the damage something so insignificant could do.

 

“Rock.”

 

“What?  What do you mean, rock?  What is….”

 

She did not bother answering him.  Instead, she stood over him and raised the rock over her head.

 

“Rock.”

 

She paused long enough for him to understand.

 

She waited for him to scream and beg her to stop whatever it was she was doing and then she crushed the rock as hard as she could upon him.

 

The scream was as loud as she had imagined.

 

She left the rock and went back to the suitcase.

 

“Paper.”

 

He was still crying from the rock and so she said it louder.

 

“Paper!”

 

He was not paying attention but it did not matter.  She sat down next to where the rock had landed and grabbed a section of his swollen skin.  She leaned in to hear the “whisp” sounds the paper made as it cut into him.  His body jerked with every slice and his screaming began again.

 

When she was satisfied, she returned to the suitcase.

 

“No, no, please, no.” In between screams and curses, he apologized over and over for all of it.

 

“Scissors.”

 

“No, god no!  Stop this, please, I won’t tell, I won’t tell, I swear….”

 

“Scissors.”  She repeated a little louder.

 

She sat down again next to him and raised the scissors high above his waist.

 

“Please, please, just listen okay, just listen…”

 

But she did not listen.  Her first strikes were hesitant as she was unsure but as she continued she worked into a frenzy.  Almost a rhythm.  She raised the blades just to her head level and then hit with them as hard as such could into him.  Over and over and over again.

 

When his crying stopped, she stopped.

 

She stood over him and looked at what she had done.  She watched him sob and the dance of his body turning from side to side in pain.  She returned to the suitcase and pulled out the gun.

 

He saw it immediately and screamed.

 

“No . . .”  He spoke in a broken whisper between heavy breaths and sobs.    “Please, you’re done.  It’s done . . . okay?  Rock, paper, scissors.  Rock . . . Paper . . . Scissors.”

 

She walked over to him and pointed the gun downwards.

 

“No,” she corrected him, “Rock . . . Paper . . . scissors . . . shoot.”

 

 

 

 

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