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Getting the Horns

5 of 8 for the Summer Fiction Series. Prompt: a bull

By J. L. GreenPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 7 min read
3
Getting the Horns
Photo by Alec Favale on Unsplash

The room was plain with stark white walls, a two-way window, and an accusing camera in the top corner of the room. She tried not to stare up at it, kept her face hidden behind a sleeve, wiping tears from her eyes.

There was a gentle knock before Officer Johnson came in. He sat at the table with her and held out a steaming cup of coffee.

"Here, Mrs. Bailey. Sorry for the long wait," He said.

He sounded quite genuine, but she wouldn't let it fool her. She knew this game well enough; good cop, bad cop, all that jazz.

When someone's partner dies, either under "mysterious circumstances" or not, the police look to the other half of the pair for blame. Not that they could call her Charles' death mysterious. He'd been bludgeoned.

"Thank you," She said, a soft sniffle coming from her as she wrapped her hands around the mug, relishing the warmth flowing through her fingertips.

"Now, I know you talked to Officer Rodriguez, but could you walk me through what happened?"

"Oh...Of course," She said. She willed away her tears and took a deep breath. "Things have been...difficult at home lately. After the last outbreak. It hit Charles' work hard and he's been tired. I thanked God that he hadn't been infected. But then I noticed some changes."

"What kind of changes?"

"The usual signs; forgetfulness, a cough. His moods would fluctuate all over the place; catatonic one moment, fine the next, and...forgive me for speaking ill of my Charles, but he became aggressive."

Some studies had shown that a particularly rare strain of the virus caused slow, steady damage to the limbic system of the brain (the part that controls emotions), causing people to have inappropriate emotional and physical responses that escalate over time.

Officer Johnson nodded and asked, "What was he doing when he was having these aggressive episodes?"

She peeked at her reflection in the two-way mirror, saw the tender black bruising around her eye; not quite a black eye but obviously not an accident. Remembered the shock had hurt more than being struck. That cold jolt of shock shot down her spine, made her see red.

"He would-" She broke off with a trembling sigh. "I'm sorry, this is much, much harder than I ever thought it would be. My Charles, he was so kind and gentle. But after he got sick..."

Officer Johnson pushed a small box of tissues her way.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," He said, "You were saying?"

"Yes. So he would come home, tired, forgetful, and in who knows what kind of mood, and I feel like I was a trigger. He would yell at me and storm out of the room, which was fine. But, a week or so in, I messed up his dinner."

She'd burnt his steak, too distracted to pay enough attention to it. Their daughter, only five-years-old, was at her friends house for the night, so that was one less worry.

"I'd never seen my Charles so mad. He saw his plate and just exploded!"

He wasn't happy with dinner, was yelling, and moved his plate, saw the letter underneath. Bolted to his feet, hands thrown at his sides in bewilderment as he read it.

"What the Hell is this?" He yelled.

She remained seated at the foot of the table, blue eyes dark and steady.

"I was hoping you would tell me."

"He lunged at me and chased me into the living room."

"Honey...this isn't what you think-"

She cut him off by holding up a hand, the picture of calm. "Why don't we go sit by the fire and talk?"

Officer Johnson leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms; Amelia barely saw it through the tears burning her eyes, but she figure it wasn't a good sign.

"I'd never expected him to do something like that, but once he got a hold of me, he hit me."

She'd lost control of her tongue, lost that calm façade and spat out a venomous accusation. The slap was sudden, unexpected. Charles, for his part, looked slightly remorseful but he matched her ugly tone, seethed a warning to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was good for her.

He stood up then, pacing in front of the fire. She followed, standing still as a scarecrow except for her hands, trembling with rage.

"If anyone finds out, I'll be ruined...We'll be ruined. You're my wife, after all."

"Don't try to rope me into this mess with you!"

They did fight then, verbally assaulting the other until he was flushed and she was a blubbering mess. She knew they would fight like this; it was half the reason she had arranged the sleepover for their daughter, she needed her out of the house.

"That must have been scary."

"It was." Amelia wiped beneath her eyes, dried tears from her chin. "He pushed me against the wall, so close to the fireplace I thought I'd fall in. And Charles is a big man, tall. He was in such a rage, his hands were at my throat. I...I don't even know. I was afraid he'd kill me."

"I see. How did the bull get involved?" Officer Johnson asked.

Leopold, they called him; a miniature of the Charging Bull statue in New York. Only it appeared to be hand-made and ugly as all Hell. Eyes uneven and staring in opposite directions, legs bent just oddly enough to be noticeable, and a little tongue poking out of his mouth. The base, at the very least, was well-done; a perfect rectangle and solid as a rock.

He had been an anonymous wedding present and they'd laughed so hard after opening him that he earned a spot on the mantle.

"I was grabbing for anything I could to get him off me. That was the only thing I was able to get a hold of. And I-" She stopped, slapping a hand to her mouth. She could feel the hysterics coming, the horrible talking-crying mixture where every word was choked around a hiccup. "I hit him. I...I just- I needed him off me! And I hit him."

"How many times did you hit him?"

"T-Two, maybe th-ree."

It had been four. That was all she could manage with any real, adrenaline spiked strength.

Charles had turned, ready to leave the living room and do whatever he could to sweep this under the rug. She'd had Leopold in her hand, the light of the fire flickering against his bronze side, mesmerizing. Charles hadn't gone more than half a foot away.

"Charles," She called.

When he turned, she reared her arm up, and slammed the base of the statue against the side of his face. He barely even cried out, he must have been so surprised. As surprised as she was when he hit her.

But, unlike him, she didn't stop. She hit him again. And again.

"Why didn't you stop after one hit?" Officer Johnson asked.

"He didn't let go, not at first. It was almost like he didn't feel it."

Another side effect of the virus, loss of senses; taste, touch, sound, smell. Sight is the last to go.

She shook her head, eyes cast off to the side, and said, "I just collapsed after he let me go...I didn't even know he fell."

She stopped swinging once he fell, her arm falling heavy as lead to her side; as heavy as the back of his head when it hit the corner of the coffee table with a sickening crack.

His once beautiful face was a swollen, bloody mess. She couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds. Didn't have time for tears, or to waste. She needed to make everything look right.

"I- I- I didn't m-mean to kill hi-im. I ju-...just needed hi-him to stop hurting me," She sobbed, throwing her face into her trembling hands.

Officer Johnson didn't move for a while, allowed her to cry as hysterically and freely as she desired. Once she'd calmed, he again offered a tissue.

"Mrs. Bailey, I am sorry you went through that. I can't imagine."

"Thank you," She whispered.

"Now, there's no rush, but I want to let you know that you and your daughter will be staying in a hotel for a few nights. The forensic team needs to finish their job before you can go home. Officer Reyes packed some bags for the two of you, and she'll take you to pick up your daughter when you're ready."

"Thank you, thank you so much."

"Of course. We'll be in touch." He left, keeping the door open for her to follow.

Amelia sat there a moment longer, unsure whether to smile or not. For now, everything was fine.

Short Story
3

About the Creator

J. L. Green

I've been writing for fun since I was a preteen and haven’t stopped since. I tend to favor the darker/angsty/thriller type of themes. Here’s to hoping readers enjoy my work, and those that don't find something they do.

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  • Janice Payette Hatfield2 years ago

    Good job !!

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