Monstrous Indifference

It was a Saturday unlike any other. A morning of the usual pleasantries that filled their weekends: sleeping in, pour-over coffee made at home, a light breakfast of eggs and toast, a joint on the balcony, and soft music to set it off, but these weren’t what made the day unique. The novelty of this day was found in the transpiring of events in a simultaneity that would later be described as horrific. However, upon further reflection, it would more easily be seen as evidence of the universe’s divine absurdity.

While the young and happy couple ate their food and smoked their weed, they discussed the possibility of a future where this was their life – every day. They painted a life of travel, other lovers, and unwavering loyalty to each other. They trusted and bled their hearts through open mouths and tear-soaked eyes. A promise to wed and to always be willing to reassess. Comfort in knowing that truth would always be the value and independence the goal. Their vulnerability to each other reflected a belief in radical openness and kindness that they exercised daily outside their relationship. A commitment to love in its many forms and a practice of it that took time to cultivate. They finished their food and their weed and began to prep their home for a housewarming with friends, old and new.

It was their neighbor’s dogs that broke them from their cleaning state. The howling mixed with an angry man’s voice raised to the wind brought both members of the young, happy couple to the kitchen window to see what was happening outside. Neither took to the balcony for fear of being seen by whoever was outside their apartment. The dogs belonged to the neighbor living directly across the hall from the young, happy couple; they referred to this man as Andrew Tate and generally kept their distance from him. The voice belonged to the downstairs neighbor, walking his dog outside until disrupted by the unleashed mutts. Tate, whose real name was Mike, appeared in the parking lot and climbed into his girlfriend’s car with the speed and agility of a somewhat active 40-something-year-old man. He pulled the car onto the grass in front of the apartment building and stepped out to retrieve his dogs, two pit mixes hell-bent on not getting in that car with Mike.

“You better get your dogs under control, or I’m gonna call the cops!” Yelled the downstairs neighbor as he scooped up his bulldog and carried her inside his ground-floor porch sliding door. Mike responded with a resounding expletive that made the downstairs neighbor blush and fume (although not enough to inform the police) while continuing his efforts to corral his petulant pits into the vehicle.

Back upstairs, the young, happy couple weighed the decision of whether or not to help the man they knew as Andrew Tate. Ultimately deciding it was the neighborly thing to do, they quickly set to retrieving coats and keys and putting on shoes. They made it to the second landing of the stairs as Mike sped off, taking large sections of mud and lawn with him. Confused by the abrupt departure, they stayed by the large picture window overlooking the front entrance and considered what may have been the impetus for what they had witnessed. The dogs escaped. But why the car?

“Maybe the dogs respond to getting into their car, and it’s the only way he could get them to listen?” Assuming this was the most reasonable answer and thinking his departure was due to the encounter with the downstairs neighbor, the young, happy couple returned to their apartment door. A thought crossed the mind of one partner, and with flawless synchronicity, the other responded.

“Should we check on his girlfriend?”

“Yes.” Without hesitation, the young, happy couple left their door, took the three steps necessary to reach their neighbors, and knocked. As they hit and heard no reply, their fears became speculations. As those speculations took hold with those fears, they found themselves acting, unable to refrain from jiggling the doorknob to see if he locked it. And as those speculations became action, a decision was made, resulting in the opening of a door that revealed the manifestation of both fears and speculations as reality. Mike's lovely, effervescent, lively girlfriend was lying lifeless on her living room floor.

Christie was a mild and modest woman. A teacher at a local public school and caregiver to four pets. Her ability to form connections with students and strangers alike was inspiring to the people she met, so they made concerted efforts to internalize the behaviors and demeanor she modeled, which they would find improved their outlook on life. People would tell her this regularly, and those who knew of the struggles in her home were left to wonder how such a bright light could ever end up with someone who would snuff her glow.

The banal and cliché truth is that people will allow a love into their life that is familiar to them. Whether it be how they were loved before by a parent or former lover or how they have learned to love themselves, we tend to stick to what we know. Suppose deprecation, discomfort, and insecurity are all a person has experienced. In that case, it stands to reason that they would continue to pursue relationships and structures that allow those feelings to persist. No matter how much we think we know about ourselves, we can never be sure how to respond to being with an abusive lover until we are with one. Christie is no different.

She sought help before this Saturday. The final push was a broken nose she suffered in an argument. She bid her time until she could make her move to escape. Mike had discovered her plan: hidden luggage, moderate sums of money stashed throughout the apartment, and texts to her family had given him the evidence he needed to play judge, jury, and executioner.

This narrator cannot pretend to know what Mike thought would result from the gruesome deed he felt formulating in his demented mind. The inner workings of a killer in the moments surrounding such a heinous act as murder are things best left out of our delicate imaginings. Those gentle daydreams and subconscious renderings meant to lull us to ease should not be marred by the psychotic musings of a violent and murderous man. What can be known is logic was not in play that day.

An abstruse rage filled Mike as he watched Christie feed her cats their morning meal in the hall. A rage he had felt before. He stood from the couch and watched her a moment longer. Mike grabbed a golf club from the bag leaning against the sofa, raising it above his head. He crossed the room and lowered the putter swiftly across the back of Christie’s head. She fell –– dead, he was sure. At the same time, he wasn’t. He rolled her body over, supine, placed his hands around her neck, and began to squeeze. The longer he held her, the harder he pressed. The harder he pressed, the more rage he felt. He lifted her head and slammed it back to the ground. Again. He let go and stood over her for a minute before removing the SOG knife from his back pocket, opening it, and repeatedly stabbing her in the chest and head. After five blows with the blade, he struck her face at an angle that buried the edge deep in her jaw. It took several forceful yanks to separate knife from bone, but not without it snapping at the tang, leaving a significant portion buried deep. He placed the remaining blade piece (now mostly handle) in his pocket and leaned against the wall in the crowded hallway. The cats swarmed, and the dogs howled. Mike caught his breath. Then, as if urged by some external force, he began to clean.

First, he opened the door, allowing the dogs out. He went downstairs and propped the front door so they could escape entirely. This allowed him to clean in peace. He returned to the apartment and set to the task of returning things to normal. Mike dragged Christie to the living room so he could move around more freely. He picked up the putter and began wiping the head. He placed it back in the golf bag. He changed his clothes in the bedroom, picking out something clean and neutral that wouldn’t attract attention. He weighed whether or not he would tidy the scene and attempt to dispose of the body but ultimately decided that time was working against him. The dogs were surely drawing the neighbor's ears and eyes. He needed to take them and leave immediately. He returned to the parking lot and began collecting the dogs.

As the young happy couple entered their neighbor's apartment, they discovered a horrific scene. Christie lie face down on the carpet, surrounded by pools and spatter. The carpet was a thick piled, beige fiber that absorbed and held the saturated red of her oxygenated blood.

“Call an ambulance.” Was the first meaningful utterance from either of them.

Mike was long gone when the young, happy couple called for help. They surveyed the front lawn, but all that remained were deep tire tracks in the grass.

“She’s still breathing.” The words lingered in thick silence as both strained to hear the agonal breaths of the not-yet-dead Christie. It was quiet, but she was breathing. Her chest's subtle rise and fall was difficult to spot until the young, happy couple allowed stillness to take hold.

“She’s alive!” They listened harder and heard the answer to their call in the distance—the banshee cry indicating that help was coming. Within minutes the ambulance was outside their building, covering the tracks left by Mike’s compact vehicle with its large, sturdy frame. Paramedics calmly climbed out and opened the rig to grab their supplies. The young, happy couple buzzed them into the building and waited for them outside the upstairs apartment, where Christie lay.

The following events occurred in such quick succession that the young, happy couple moved as though they were possessed. Shock dictated their actions and responses to the police now filling the building. Statements and evidence were the officers' priority, not the witnesses' emotional state nor the precious victim's survival.

“Grey compact. Nissan, maybe?”

…

“Indication? I mean, we heard yelling once, but that was it. Other than that, we just had a feeling.”

…

“No. Chevy. Wait.”

…

“We called the guy Andrew Tate. Do you know who that is?”

…

“I can’t say for sure; we just moved here.”

…

“I can’t explain why. It was just vibes.”

While the young, happy couple answered the police officer’s questions and the paramedics carefully moved Christie to the ambulance, Mike unwittingly returned to the complex to secure the door he had forgotten to lock. The last thing he needed was for one of the neighbors Christie had befriended to get nosy and go knocking. Easy access to the scene of his crime would ensure he wouldn’t have time to get out of town. However, as he neared his building at the back of the property, he noticed several police cruisers lining the lots outside several residences. He braked hard, coming to a complete stop in the middle of the road. Another person in a car behind him slammed on their brakes and horn simultaneously, drawing the attention of an officer leaving the scene. By this time, a BOLO had been sent out for Mike’s grey compact car, possibly Nissan or Chevy make, so city and county officers were looking for vehicles like this and a man named Micheal Gates who resembled and acted like Andrew Tate. The officer witnessing the two cars nearly collide recognized the one as possibly fitting the description of the suspect’s vehicle.

That officer’s decision to radio in what he saw changed what was otherwise a perfect escape for Mike. And the decision of the young, happy couple to check on Christie is objectively the moment that triggered a domino effect which ultimately ended in the saving of her life and the imprisonment of Mike for the duration of his.

Except, that isn’t what happened. The young, happy couple had no fears, speculations, decisions, or discoveries. They did not choose to check on their neighbor, the girlfriend of Andrew Tate. They returned to their apartment, shaking off the nascent feeling that something may have been wrong, and continued cleaning and preparing for company. They did not notice when Mike returned to lock Christie inside the apartment before promptly leaving, similarly as before. They hosted a successful home-warming event that night with friends. So successful that they invited their friends back over the next night for further bacchanalnaiism.

Not until the following Monday, when a wellness check was called for Christie, did the young, happy couple realize she was even dead. That realization led to several others, each more horrifying than the last. The realizations did not stop coming. They were kept up at night with new ones, trying desperately to forget or forgive themselves. Whichever came first.