Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,66
months. I sprinkle it into a glass and make sure to wipe off the rim.
This won’t be enough and you know it…
I look over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t watching, and then I reach far back behind his collection of beer—looking for the bottle I filled with antifreeze a few weeks ago.
I pour it into his glass and add the coke and rum on top, swirling the liquid around with my finger.
Grabbing the chips, I take it over to him just as he’s standing up from the couch.
“Took you long enough.” He scoffs, taking the glass from my hands. “Let’s play a new game of chess since reruns are on.”
It’s not a question. I don’t have a choice.
Taking my seat at the glass table, I set up the board as he takes a seat across from me.
“This is really good,” he says, taking a long sip of his drink. “I’ll have to buy more cherry coke this week. If you learn to behave like your brother, I’ll think about getting you a few cases for the basement.”
I move my pawn first, and he follows suit—talking to me in between moves as if he’s trying to distract me from what will undoubtedly be another win for me.
He’s honestly far too predictable to make this game interesting, and sometimes I’d rather not play at all than share a board with him.
By the time we’re sixteen moves in, I’m ready for a damn checkmate, but I hold back and let it drag out by making small pawn moves. He’s finished his drink and he’s sweating profusely, but he doesn’t look unusual.
“Get me a fucking Sprite.” He snaps, and I oblige—jumping up and quickly returning with a cup.
“You’ll only have about fifteen minutes to use the shower when we finish,” he says, snatching the glass from my hands. “I’d use them wisely if I were you. We’ll be having a few new visitors next week and you have a lot of—” He suddenly sucks in a loud breath and drops his glass to the floor. The bubbles hiss and fizz as they splatter on the hardwood.
His eyes go wide and he grabs his neck, as if he can stretch it wide enough to force in fresh air.
I watch as he gags, as he stumbles forward and falls onto our game, then onto the floor.
“Call fucking 9-1-1…” His face is paling. “Now.”
I pick up his cell phone and dial the 9 and the 1, but then I stop.
What the hell am I doing?
I step back and erase the numbers, then I set his phone down on the window sill.
“Michael, Michael…” He’s struggling to breathe, pleading with his eyes. “Please…”
I don’t move. I just watch as his face shifts from white to blue, as he writhes in painful agony. His gagging and gurgling sounds become more labored as the seconds pass, and then there’s silence.
Beautiful, freedom signaling silence.
I walk over and stand over his body, realizing how sad of a human being he is. How even he was scared of something bigger than himself in the end.
Or, so I thought…
He suddenly starts coughing again, managing to wheeze and let out another soft, “Help…Please.”
I’m not sure what comes over me, but I lean over him and grab his neck—gripping it as hard as I can. Using all of my frustration and pain for power, I strangle him until I can feel the last breath leave his body. I keep my fingers on him long after he’s gone, wanting to secure my future, wanting to make sure he never wakes up again.
“Uncle Avery, can I stay free for—” Trevor gasps as he steps into the kitchen, all the color leaving his face. “What the hell are you doing, Michael?”
“Getting rid of our problem,” I said. “Help me put his body in the deep freezer. Get some trash bags.”
“You killed him…” His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “How did you…How did you even—”
“Now, Trevor.”
He hesitates for a few seconds, but then he walks over to the drawer and pulls out several black trash bags. He slices them open with a pair of scissors and spreads them onto the floor.
We take our time wrapping every part of him, and good measure, I stuff a wad of paper towels into his mouth and use duct tape to shut it. In the off chance that he magically wakes up and takes another breath, it’ll be his last.
We struggle to drag him across the living room floor and