Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,49
I thought of the street sweepers, how they used to turn around in the middle of the street because of some imaginary boundary that it took far too long for the politicians to erase. I never thought that there’d be something comfort in thinking about the municipal clusterfucks of the Lower Mainland.
“Grab him by the feet,” Darrel said. “Help me carry him up to the cockpit.”
He’d wrapped Jon’s body in the blanket, like a shroud, but there was no concealing the smell or the blood and who the fuck knows what else, dripping onto the floor like a Jackson Pollock.
I did what he told me.
We carried Jon up to the cockpit. We lifted him over the side and I watched him fall into the water.
Darrel hadn’t bothered to weigh the body down. His former best friend bobbed in the water like a department store mannequin.
I said a prayer for Jon and for Breccan, because I knew she’d be next. Darrel had been feeding her the smallest amount of meat and blood, just enough to keep her breathing.
I wanted to stop him from cutting into her.
But I didn’t want to die.
Darrel doesn’t bother pretending that the handheld works anymore. He’s never come out and told me, but I know that it never did. Sometimes I wonder if part of him had wanted things to end up this way.
I want to kill him.
During the day we act like everything’s fine, because I don’t think either of us wants to admit that eventually there will only be a place for one survivor.
Darrel keeps the raven-headed dagger strapped to his belt. He doesn’t trust me at all.
At night he still tapes me up, wrists and ankles and Hawaiian roast pig. He tapes me and then he spoons me, as though we’re an old married couple laying together, cuddling and relaxing and digesting our travel companions.
Edgar still circles; I’m not sure what he finds to eat in the middle of nowhere. I wonder sometimes why he’s still waiting around, if he wants to stick it out to see how it all ends.
Darrel doesn’t know how it’s going to end. He doesn’t realize that he’ll be the next to go.
TUESDAY - Fifteen Days Adrift
BRECCAN WILL be dead soon. I guess for her that’s good news, but I know it means that time is running out for Darrel and me.
He keeps the kitchen knives locked up in his toolbox, and I don’t have much of a shot going at him with a fork. In the end I think it will have to be the cast iron pan.
I’m worried that I won’t hit him hard enough the first time.
“I think I’m falling for you,” Darrel said as we sat together at the dinette after the meal.
“I guess that’ll make me extra delicious,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I’ll bet.”
“It can’t be much longer now. We’ll reach the coast soon.”
“Sure we will.”
“I think we should make a deal, Steph.”
“Suicide pact? I don’t think it’s possible to eat each other to death.”
“I’m serious,” he said with a frown. “We’re both doctors... or close enough.”
“I don’t think we’d have much of a shot at a medical license now.”
“What if we amputated our legs, one piece at a time? We start with one foot each, and move up from there.”
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Harsh.”
“I’m not interested in playing doctor with you,” I said. “Just kill me and get it over with, Sparky.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“Sorry, Darrel. I’m on the menu now.”
“I don’t need your permission,” he said. “I can just restrain you and do whatever I think is right.”
“That’s true. A maniac’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. But let’s do one thing before you start slicing and dicing.”
“What?”
“Fuck me, Darrel.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking. I haven’t had sex in three months. Even if I make it out of here my prospects are going to nose dive what with one leg being shorter than the other.”
“This is a trick.”
“Tape me up for it if you want,” I said. “Maybe I’m into that... it doesn’t matter. Just fuck me, alright?”
He nodded. He walked over to grab the roll of duct tape, moving a little slower with the change in blood flow.
It was my only chance.
I ran over to the kitchen and grabbed the pan. I swung it at his head.