By the Speck in Thine Brother’s Eye
What are sisters for?
The third act. With that acknowledgement came a wave of what — disappointment? I slumped and drew my legs to my chest as the buzz crashed, not unlike a stage actor after the final curtain on closing night. Already I’d learned that to focus the eyes of a corpse, I needed to manipulate the eye-ball itself. Even then, there was no presence, no life force to engage my interest. Defunct peeps neither judged nor searched for tells. They were unnaturally still. Exceedingly boring.
I leaned in, our noses almost touching and stared into the blue depths. There was the black speck. Right eye — 10 o’clock.
Lily’s words floated on the steam gathering in the small room. Her sweet voice spoke the unthinkable. ‘He had a black speck in his right eye. Ten o’clock. I stared at it while — .’
Now, 17 days later, those same eyes focused on something far away. Another time, perhaps — before the evil took hold. Long before waiting on me at the bar last night. His inner sight was likely trained upon the gates of Hell. Those doors may resemble the doors to the medicine cabinet hanging above the sink in this bathroom.
Apropos that upon beholding the entrance to his final destination, gagging on the fetid stench of rot, giant doors resembling the two doors to the medicine chest that stashed the tools of his trade, would grind open and bid him welcome.
The doors would be the last thing he saw before the inferno within seared the flesh from the bone, melting his eyes from their sockets. He wanted to get fucked. Once he met me, he well and truly was.
I turned his head toward the medicine cabinet. Better.
A few days earlier, I’d known it was only a matter of time before I found him. After all, I knew where to look, while he had no idea I even existed. Now, the promise fulfilled, the quest drew to a close while pink bathwater overflowed onto the floor.
Pink, because I left nothing to chance.
In a state of mild fascination, I watched the water darken to crimson in ever-expanding clouds. It was so pretty — death. Who knew?
The cloying copper scent rose with the steam that fogged the mirror of the medicine chest.
Both bartenders were friendly, but the one with the black speck was focused — too attentive. The speck had been hard to catch in the dim light, more so with the bar being backlit.
How many had there been? How many Lilys?
I had ordered my drink and watched him mix it with confident, graceful movements. No sips before I discretely dunked one Undercover Colors painted nail. He’d lingered where I sat, making small talk. His watching eyes drew my suspicion. The changed polish confirmed it.
I giggled and flirted while I dribbled the gin and tonic on the floor bit by bit as he served other patrons. No mistaking who did what.
Then the performance of a lifetime.
The place had emptied out as the college crowd moved to Vancouver’s hot spots. His shift was nearly over, and I had but a few minutes to make good on my promise.
Forty-five minutes later, I fell onto his couch, sloppy and slurring. I deserved an Academy — or a Golden Globe, at least. My last maneuver, request a nightcap. It didn’t matter that I could barely articulate the words.
I’d asked for a drink, and he’d happily obliged, believing it would finally put me out. He disappeared to the kitchen. I headed to the bathroom, rebounding off the furniture and hallway walls. One picture tilted, another dropped to the floor.
I’d pried the medicine chest door open ever so quietly. Then I knew for sure. What a fool to keep the drug in his bathroom. Then again, most of his guests were incapacitated before they made it to his house.
Back on the sofa, he used the bathroom while I emptied the two blister packs I found in the cabinet into his glass. What were big sisters for? Shame prevented her from telling. Her secrecy cloaked my involvement.
Twenty minutes after he finished his drink, I helped him to the tub. No need for acting at that point, the Rohypnol owned him now. I’d put on the latex gloves from my purse and rid the blister packs of my prints. Before I dropped them in the sink, I carefully wrapped his limp fingers around the empty packaging.
In twenty-five minutes, when he was unconscious in a filling tub, I dragged the razor up the milky inside of his thick arms, careful to make a few hesitation marks. After I wiped the surface of the razor clean and flushed the tissue, I positioned the razor in both his hands — proper order, of course — and dropped it on the floor where it remained.
No room for error.
I stretched and left the bathroom, humming, with nine pink nails — and one blue.
