Four Short Stories by Artistikem Read online



  Four Short Stories by Artistikem

  Astrid H. Cruz

  Copyright 2010 Astrid H. Cruz

  The Winter Man

  He was sitting there, on that same park bench that has been written about thousands of times in poems, novels, songs, stories. I watched him from behind a tree as he flipped the pages of his book. Lonely bench, lonely man. And I just watched, the winter in his hair, in his skin, in his eyes.

 

  Time burns slowly when you are watching. He flipped a page, softly, in a way that seemed more to be caressing the pages than turning them. He was a gentle man, a winter man. His eyes looked down the length of his nose, a cold stare rather than one from a man entirely warm, and alive.

  A shiver went down my spine. He looked about him and back into his book. I was safe behind my tree, my hands clenched to the rough texture. Too shy to step closer and too frozen to step back. His winter was catching up with me, the coldness was creeping on me.

  He sighed.

  And it was like a wave of warmth came on to him. Even in his winter, there was something left in him, hidden. I was determined to find it.

  Then again, I couldn’t move.

  He rose to his feet. I thought he was leaving, that I had lost my chance, even if it was to blurt some incoherent words at him. But he sat again, he was just stretching out his legs, his long wintery legs. His eyes dropped back into his book, back to the cold stare, to caressing the pages.

  I sighed.

  Looked down at the dry grass and the roots of my tree.

  “Did you know that I can hear you?” The cold went in through my ears, into my chest, my stomach.

  He turned around. His wintery gust hit my face and I shuddered. He walked away, his winter walked away from me, and all turned warm.

  Stabbing Spree

  Many times my mother told me: ‘Do not run around with scissors.’ Well, this is not a scissor, this is a knife.

  And yes, I’m running. Running and painting the floor with the tiny red drops of warm liquid that drip from my hand.

  I stabbed him. I didn’t mean to. It wasn’t what I thought would happen. We argued, we always did. I had a knife with me, I always did.

  Maybe he is not dead. I stop. What if I didn’t kill him and then he’ll call for help and the police will come and he’ll say it was me?

  Not that they’d find any motives. Or could they? No, no, impossible. Everybody knows I’m a…clean? Well-kept? Normal? A person, yes, but…

  Oh God, I can see it now: Mayor’s daughter stabs boyfriend, flees the scene. Damn! Dad will kill me for sure. What was I thinking?

  Oh yeah, I know what I was thinking. I was thinking that the little bastard wanted to dump me. And no one dumps me.

  The dumpster! Yes, yes, like in the movies. I’ll go back, throw him in the dumpster, go to the police and report him as missing.

  My tongue feels cold against my lips again, yes, that will do, the dumpster will do. Now I run back, I should clean this knife and hide it.

  No evidence. The traces of blood on the floor? There is a storm coming in today, the rain will wash it away.

  No one will doubt on me, I’m the mayor’s daughter. I’m innocent, I’m kindhearted, I’m amiable… I’m fucked! Where the hell did he go?

  The alley is the same, the pool of blood is there, I can still hear the echo of his voice whispering for mercy. But…he…is…not…there.

  A police siren? No, ice cream truck. Daddy always bought me ice cream, actually, he bought me anything I wanted. Where did this bastard go?

  Hard, stiff, pressure, slowly penetrates, cold then warm. I am on my knees, repainting the pool of blood under me.

  He leans over me, drops of his blood tapping on my cheek. ‘You can have a knife, but it’s another thing to know how to use it.’

  ‘Bastard’ it hurts to grunt when you are wounded. He flips me over so I can see how he shoves his knife, repeatedly, in me.