Page 134 - The Houseguest

Until that moment, I was unsure how I would use the sharp metal snips I’d found in the shed. I returned to her bedside and gently took her free hand in mine. Holding the tool firmly, I forced her pinky finger between the blades, well below the knuckle as she fought and screamed: “Wait! Stop! You crazy bastard! No!” I squeezed the handle bringing the blades together and her little finger fell silently to the floor. Since each finger technically has many parts: bones, tendons, arteries, nerves, veins, soft tissue and skin, I marveled at what little resistance they gave collectively against the razor-sharp edges of the snips. I did however hear a distinct crunching sound, which I found truly exhilarating. Her eyes widened, tears began to stream as blood spurted out onto the sheets. I knew it would clot and she would live, but I suppose she didn’t know that. Or maybe it was just the pain that kept her wailing. Donning a plastic glove, I picked up the bloody digit and walked calmly into the bathroom. The finger still had a silver ring she’d been wearing with what appeared to be tiny inlaid diamonds. To heighten my enjoyment, I imagined the piece of jewelry was something she held dear, perhaps from a past lover, or even her parents. I made sure to leave the door open so she could hear as I released the finger, and flushed.
I belted out a hearty chuckle as I pictured it bypassing one of the many jammed crayons that undoubtedly remained somewhere in these pipes. Little Katie went through a stage of flushing these because she wanted the toilet water to be “pretty colors.”
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life