Ice Pick

Rome wasn't built in a night, nor is a fantasy such as I have just fulfilled. I know not why this has always been something that I desired, but as I toss the shreds of cloth into the furnace, I realize it is fantasy no more. A smirk slowly runs across my face with this thought. "How devilish is this, that I find joy in such an act?" Yet, I know the answer to my question is facetious. I have always known there was something dark dwelling within me, and as long as I can remember, I have possessed this desire. To see it come to fruition though is like, "Damn, There Is No Way This Is Happening?" It is with said thought that I pick up one of the legs and step outside. Walking to the edge of the hollow, I throw it into the vat below. The muriatic acid rips the skin away from the muscle as I watch. Once again, a smile spreads across the landscape of my face, as it now eats away at the tissue exposing the bone. I try to kid myself, thinking, "This is not the sole purpose for which I bought this land." In the back of my mind though, I know it is. I know that I have done this out of arrogance. Not only that, but I know that I will never be caught, nor will it be chalked up as a crime. At best the report will read, "Missing Person". It is not mere vanity that ensures success, but rather sound planning. Murder is an art form, and any murder is a work of art. Van Gough, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, they did not merely throw paints upon ceilings and canvases. No rather, every brush stroke was calculated. Why hell, it took Da Vinci ten years just to finish Mona Lisa's smile. There is even a method to the madness that is Jackson Pollack. So too must there be with murder. It is a scientific procedure. Thus, one must ready for it as they would any experiment. My starting point was acquiring the land. It had to have an appeal to it, but be somewhat unwanted. Location plays the greatest role in such a thing. If it is somewhat inaccessible there is little or no interest shown. Inaccessibility though is desirable, for seclusion is a must. Along with the plot of land, there must be a structure; an old home place that is still sound. Mine is visible only from the property, for it lies within a ravine. Then one must gather tools for creation. Instruments may vary based on one's medium. I personally chose dismemberment. This meant I would need a hacksaw with several blades. The hacksaw could be acquired at any time, but the blades, no sooner nor later than a year out. It is best to purchase as little as possible; then one does not leave a paper trail. As for the acid, well, there had to be a pre-existing need for it. As luck would have it, some thirteen years ago I inherited a house with a pool. I was April's favorite nephew; thus, it surprised no one when she left me her home. Her passing also made it possible to finance the needed acreage. The pool justified the purchasing of the muriatic acid. I use it to knock the cloudiness out of the water. Such is a seasonal purchase, and thus, time was needed to justify the quantity that would be necessary. I did myself a favor by passing on my pool maintenance tip to my friends and neighbors. They were all too appreciative for the advice. It is their purchases that guarantee no direct link to me. Of course, I would need some way to contain the acid; since, it was meant for decomposition, making fifty-gallon drums ideal. Not only are they durable, but also they can be sealed. Besides, they are very accessible in this neck of the woods. I know many would question, "But what of your victim?" To that I would answer, "The process of elimination is easy. I must be known to them, yet not familiar. They must trust me, but have no reason to be in my presence. Of course, my indiscretions must be discreet." It is with this thought I find myself in awe of my genius. She was known in town as a woman with loose morals. It is said that she would leave at the drop of a hat, only to resurface when it benefited her. In fact, I believe that she may have walked out of Ibsen's dollhouse. It is sorrow I carry for her children, but my actions are not to ease their pain. I wish I could say I was so noble, but alas, I am not. No, I have committed this crime for my satisfaction and only my satisfaction. I revel in thought of my actions. Her hand feels just as smooth running across my face now as it did three hours ago. The only difference now is there is no blood running though the veins. “Hahahaha!” I fondle it and reminisce of how she handed it to me as I helped her into the vehicle. It was not chance that I had crossed her path there this night, but rather, well calculated preparation. I knew of her behaviors, as did everyone in our town. She turned tricks any given night of the weekend. She had been shocked to see me, for I am a pillar in this community. It is my morals and ethics by which it is defined. My money she would take though, for it spent as well as anyone’s. Without hesitation she climbed into my vehicle, and we began our journey towards her sepulcher. She was unaware that her decision had sealed her fate. This night would be her last, and I had assumed the roles of judge, jury and executioner. I know that I have not been guided by the hand of God, but I can not help to feel a little smug. Though the Lord himself refuses to recognize it, and my act is one of self-indulgence, I know the work I have done is of a higher power. After all, this woman was a lesion on the face of society. I have not created a void, but rather have preserved oxygen that otherwise would have been squandered. The fingertips glide across mine, as if they had been clinging to my grip and had lost it. Like a moth in desperation, the arm flutters to the cauldron below. It hits the surface and festers like an egg frying on a sidewalk during a hot summer's day. A devious grin spreads across my face, as if my mother had torqued it to that position. Baffled am I, for my mind is submersed both in ecstasy and fear. I am elated for my longing has given away to actuality. Yet fear taunts me, for now that I have tasted such exhilaration, is my thirst quenched? I watch her face being stripped away from her skull like a peel is torn away from an orange. The remaining portions of the cadaver along the hacksaw and blades I lug out to the pit. I drop them to the floor below and climb into the tomb. I dance around the bubbling pools of overspill that lie upon the floor and placed each limb and instrument of gratification into their assigned cask. Each barrel is sealed, as if its content inside were as sacred as that of the Ark of the Covenant. I scale the wall digging my toes into the earth, hand over hand inching up the rope. Reaching the summit, I emerge as one who is victorious, but I must remain focused for I have only entered the homestretch. The chasm is twice as deep and wide as what is common for a final resting place, and the process that follows is a grueling. Sealing the vault with extracted earth, I work with a fervor for daylight is my enemy, and it is she that could well be my undoing. Hour upon hour passes and the moon skates across the rink above. Even as the sun begins to peek over the horizon with her arrogance I am still aligning sod. I feel like La Motta after Robinson pounded his face into hamburger meat, but when self-indulgences is your mistress the price she makes you pay for her silences is always high. With the last piece of sod in place, I scurry back towards the underground well located behind the cabin. The water rumbles down the spout and rolls over my head, racing across my body, as I use the pump to entice it to rise up through the duct. I am meticulous in my pursuit of cleanliness, scrubbing to the point of near irritation. Entering back into the cabin, I grab the bottle of bleach water that sits upon the corner of the somewhat rusted surgical slab and wipe it down. Rag in hand and on all fours, I begin to scour the floor with the same vigor that I had use to cleanse myself. A pail of the aforementioned concoction assist me in purging this place of any lingering traces of my iniquities. With task at hand complete, I carry the bucket of holy water to the door and return this purifier to the earth. Setting the pail by the fiery strongbox, I watch as the tatters of my labor are devoured and carry off my secret with them. Dressing, I scan the cabin for any hints of unacknowledged evidence. The flames in the old stove flicker as they begin to wan out of existence. They have ravened all apparel that once was and retreat now as hyenas that have finished feasting. Grabbing my mist bottle from the oxidized table and the ice chest from the corner of the room, I head towards the four wheel drive. As I pull up to the bank of the creek, I know that the last piece of the puzzle is about to evaporate into thin air. Hopping out of the vehicle, I extract the synthetic cocoon and move to the edge of the bank. I glance through the translucent exterior of the envelop. The instrument of creation is still intact, but is now coated with the ruby colored gel that she excreted each time it was thrust into her soft tissue. From the shaft to the tip it runs eleven inches in length. I uncover the device, exposing that it is two inches in diameter at the shaft and gradually spirals to a half inch blunt tip. I had chiseled it with the precision of a surgeon. Clutching the plastic, gripping it tight, I admire my handiwork one last time. My hand relaxes and the ice pick tumbles out of its casing to the stream below. As it dissolves, leaving behind a cloud of powdery smoke, the last verification of my artistry disappears; dry ice, the perfect murder weapon. Holding the wrap by a corner I set it ablaze. The flames scamper toward my fingertips, as if they were in pursuit of their prey. The congealed droplets fall from the air like the Nazi bombs that rained upon London. The blaze edges ever so close to my hand, almost licking the tips of my fingers. I set the remains of the casing assail, seconds before the fire swoops upon my hand. Returning to the mechanical rig, I produce the bottle of effacing solution. After dousing the cooler with the mixture, I wipe it dry with a cloth, which I acquired from the vehicle. Placing the portable ice chest behind my seat, I set the fabric ablaze as I had the plastic. I watch it waltz toward my hand before letting it glide to the ground and burn itself out. Ascending back into my motorized carriage, I begin my emergence upon town. As I drive, I begin to design my next masterpiece. I cut short my scheming. I cannot allow myself such luxury. “Perfection has been achieved. Can you not find satisfaction in that… but the exhilaration was delectable… NO, NO, NO! IT ENDS HERE! I AM MASTER OF MY THOUGHTS AND ACTIONS!” Beads of sweat are beginning to accumulate upon my brow, and my palms are bleeding moisture from their pores. Feeling myself scurrying along the edge of sanity, I turn on the air conditioner. As the coolness slaps against my face, I can feel my nerves becoming like cold hard steel again. My eyes peer back at me from the mirror. The reflection shows that they are like stagnant pools of water. I pull my vision back to the road and coast the last couple of blocks to my house. I turn into the drive and enter through the front door.

She is sitting on the couch.

“How are you?”

“I am okay…,” she pushes out.

I move beside her on the couch, and she thrusts her arms around me.

“I am sorry…,” she stammers.

I feel her tears on my cheek, and can not help but giggle inside. The conflict between use, from the evening before, I had orchestrated and conducted with the skill of a maestro. I had hid the unpaid bill, and that is why a letter of delinquency had laid upon the table. As I stormed out of the house and ripped out of the drive, I knew I had my freedom. She knew well where I went to cool off, but she never followed.

“It is all going to be okay. The boy?”

“In his room… You are a loving man,” she exclaims.

“I try to be.” I head toward my son’s room. He has serenity painted upon his face as he slumbers. I kiss him on the forehead and conclude that a family should be my next composition.