{"id":138,"date":"2011-03-16T09:30:18","date_gmt":"2011-03-16T16:30:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/?p=138"},"modified":"2011-03-16T14:16:23","modified_gmt":"2011-03-16T21:16:23","slug":"body-bag-killing-friends-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/body-bag-killing-friends-3\/","title":{"rendered":"Body Bag – Killing Friends 3"},"content":{"rendered":"

For Janine Elston <\/em><\/p>\n

Janine sat at the top of the stairs staring down at the worthless waste of space she called a husband. She always questioned why she had left her last husband, Jeff. He was a great provider and a demon in the sack but had an unhealthy obsession with video games. Her new husband Edgar was a loud abusive drunk with a bottomless wallet. He kept pretty quiet now though. A common side effect of being dead.<\/p>\n

It was an accident of course. <\/p>\n

Janine had returned from shopping with a sexy little outfit for their upcoming anniversary. She was hoping to add a little spark to their recently dull love-life. While trying it on in front of the mirror, she heard the front door slam shut. Edgar stumbled up the stairs and into the room. He was home much earlier than usual. He reeked of cheap scotch and carried a crumpled letter.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey fired me,\u201d he slurred, \u201cthe sons of bitches fired me\u201d. <\/p>\n

Janine tried to act surprised but she had seen it coming. Edgar had been given many warnings in the past about his drinking. She wrapped her arms around his tiny shoulders and hugged him.<\/p>\n

Edgar pushed her away from him and held her at arms length. He looked her up and down analyzing her outfit. His face turned red with rage.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you wearing that?\u201d he asked. \u201cThere’s someone here isn’t there? Where is he?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shoved Janine to the floor and tore through the room savagely. She called to him from the floor trying to calm him but in his heightened state, he’d completely tuned her out. He destroyed the room looking for the imaginary man who was screwing his wife. He checked all of the obvious places: in the closet, under the bed, in the dresser drawer, but when he broke open Janine’s antique vase, she lost her patience. Her grandmother had left her that vase when she died. It was ancient.<\/p>\n

She began to scream and shoved Edgar, calling him whatever name she could think of \u2013 inventing her own language as she yelled. Edgar’s screams of accusations quickly turned to apologies. Every time he would speak, though, Janine would shove him again \u2013 interrupting him mid sentence. Before she knew it, they were standing at the top of the stairs.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you stop?!\u201d screamed Edgar, \u201cYou’re over reacting. You sound just like your mother right now\u201d. <\/p>\n

Janine’s eyes went cold. Edgar quickly tried to take back what he had said but it was too late. Janine screamed and kicked him, sending him spiralling down the stairs to his death.<\/p>\n

An accident.
\n
\nJanine sighed from her seated position at the top of the stairs with her head resting in her hands. Edgar’s tiny body hadn’t handled the fall very well. His neck had bent funny and one of the bones in his leg had broken through the skin. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of his own blood. She had to get rid of him \u2013 he was staining the carpet.<\/p>\n

After changing into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Janine entered the storage space in search of something to put her dead husband in. She emerged with a hockey bag. It would be tight but she could squeeze him in there. With that many broken bones, Janine could probably fold him up and put him in her purse.<\/p>\n

After unzipping the bag, she placed it on the floor near her husband. Once she had equipped herself with yellow cleaning gloves, Janine rolled Edgar onto the bag and began tucking him in. After a painstakingly long period, she slumped to the floor covered in sweat and breathing heavily. The zipper looked as though it would break at any moment so she wrapped the bag in an entire roll of duct tape. They were right, it really could fix anything. <\/p>\n

Janine dragged the bag to her front door leaving behind a dark red trail of blood. Once she opened it, she was taken back by the bright light of the sun. She instantly regretted not waiting until night to push her husband down a flight of stairs. If she could just get him to the trunk of her car, everything would be fine. There was a small graveyard outside of town. If she buried him there in a fresh grave, nobody would ever find him. <\/p>\n

Janine dragged the bag to her car and leaned against the trunk to rest. Someone approached her from behind.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey neighbour\u201d. It was Mark, the clueless, single, guy from across the street. To say looks were the only thing this guy had going for him would be a severe understatement. \u201cWatcha got there?\u201d he asked. Janine struggled to hide her annoyance. <\/p>\n

\u201cGroceries\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cGroceries?\u201d he raised an eyebrow. \u201cBut, it’s dripping blood everywhere\u201d. Janine looked down at the blood that streaked her walkway. <\/p>\n

\u201cIt’s meat\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh\u201d Mark said. \u201cWhat kind of meat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you need something, Mark?\u201d she asked through her teeth. \u201cOr did you just wake up on the annoying side of the bed this morning?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa\u201d, he said, putting his hands up as a sign of surrender. \u201cNo need to get testy\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cI’m not ‘testy’\u201d, she said slamming her hand onto the trunk of her car. \u201cI just don’t have time to discuss whether or not I’m lugging my husband’s body around in a duffel bag. Now help me get this thing into the trunk\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAlright, alright. Damn\u201d<\/p>\n

Defeated, Mark helped her load the bloody mess into her trunk. He stared at his blood-soaked hands as Janine drove off.<\/p>\n

\u201cMust be one hell of a barbeque\u201d he muttered to himself.<\/p>\n

———–<\/p>\n

The red light on the car’s dashboard indicated the car was low on fuel. Janine pulled into a nearby Shell station to remedy that. She pulled up next to a self-serve pump. Janine had never been the type of girl who refused to pump her own gas and she prided herself on that.<\/p>\n

Over the sounds of the pump and the flow of the gas, Janine had a chance to reflect on everything that had happened. The adrenaline was gone now and in it’s place was only sadness and regret. As much as Edgar had frustrated her, he really wasn’t all that bad. He really did love her, deep down, and at some point, she was sure she had loved him. She shook it off and paid for the gas. <\/p>\n

By the time Janine had reached the graveyard, the sun had gone all the way down. She pulled the duffel bag out of the trunk, with great effort, and moved it to a fresh grave. She grabbed the shovel from the back seat and began digging in the loose dirt. She fought back the tears that were creeping out from behind her eyelids.<\/p>\n

Once she had reached three or four feet, she made her way back to her husband. Dropping to her knees, she cried uncontrollably, hugging into the bloody bag. What had she done? There was no way she could get away with this. She had killed her husband, that’s all there was to it. As lousy as he was, he didn’t deserve this. She would give anything to bring him back. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt something inside of the bag move. She cautiously unzipped the upper portion of the bag revealed her wide-eyed, still breathing, husband. The damage from the fall mixed with the amount of alcohol in his system must have kept him unconscious this whole time.<\/p>\n

\u201cEdgar!\u201d she shrieked, \u201cYou’re alive\u201d. She leaned in and kissed him, tears streaming down her cheeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou bitch\u201d he screamed, \u201cWhat the fuck did you do to me? Get me out of here\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cI’m sorry\u201d she answered through sobs of relief. She got to her feet and headed towards the car to get a knife to cut him out with.<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus Christ\u201d muttered Edgar. \u201cI was wrong earlier, you’re worse than your damn mother. At least she wasn’t bat-shit crazy\u201d.<\/p>\n

Janine stopped in her tracks. The crying ceased. She stomped back towards Edgar, picking up the shovel on her way. Without wasting a second, she brought the shovel down on Edgar’s face with bone-crushing force and dragged her husband into his grave.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For Janine Elston <\/em><\/p>\n

∼ Continue Reading ∼<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[15,8,19,14,10,4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-138","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-comedy","category-flash-fiction","category-killing-friends","category-requests","category-shorts","category-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/138","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=138"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/138\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":161,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/138\/revisions\/161"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=138"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=138"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.marklidstone.com\/TheWriter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=138"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}