I don't talk about this much, but I think about it
constantly. I dream about it constantly. I can't see a red Toyota
without wanting to vomit. It's with me wherever I go.
There we were, riding down the busy boulevard in the midst of Friday rush hour traffic in his two seat, red Toyota MR2, on our way to pick up my kids.
We were just a few blocks from where we were going and he said, "Don't let the kids reach behind your seat.", with a calm that sent chills down my spine.
Slowly, I turned my head to look into his stony, emotionless face. His eyes hollow and cold. Ice blue and dead. The face of a monster. The eyes of an empty, soulless creature.
The terror of that moment still makes me nauseous to even think about.
"Why?", I asked, my voice cracking with dread and fear.
"Al's head is in a plastic bag behind your seat.", he said, with such nonchalance it made my blood feel like ice water pumping through my veins.
There was no turning back. There was no making another plan. I had to put my kids in that car. In that car with a severed head packed in a dark, green trash bag behind my seat.
We arrived at our destination and I got out of the car. Walking down the walkway toward my kids felt like walking the Green Mile. My feet felt as heavy as lead. Every step was excruciatingly painful, emotionally and physically.
He'd had that head behind my seat for days and I'd had no idea. I rode in that car with a fucking head behind my seat and I didn't even know. He'd waited until my most vulnerable moment to spring this particular horror. Those were the fucky-fucky head games he loved to play, and he was damned good at them.
I was married to pure evil and there seemed to be no escape. If I tried, I knew someone was going to die. Again.
To this day I still don't know how I kept my shit together, because I surely can't keep it together even thinking about it now.
How did I?
How could I?
Does the fact that I did make me a monster, too?
The questions and memories will haunt me forever.
There we were, riding down the busy boulevard in the midst of Friday rush hour traffic in his two seat, red Toyota MR2, on our way to pick up my kids.
We were just a few blocks from where we were going and he said, "Don't let the kids reach behind your seat.", with a calm that sent chills down my spine.
Slowly, I turned my head to look into his stony, emotionless face. His eyes hollow and cold. Ice blue and dead. The face of a monster. The eyes of an empty, soulless creature.
The terror of that moment still makes me nauseous to even think about.
"Why?", I asked, my voice cracking with dread and fear.
"Al's head is in a plastic bag behind your seat.", he said, with such nonchalance it made my blood feel like ice water pumping through my veins.
There was no turning back. There was no making another plan. I had to put my kids in that car. In that car with a severed head packed in a dark, green trash bag behind my seat.
We arrived at our destination and I got out of the car. Walking down the walkway toward my kids felt like walking the Green Mile. My feet felt as heavy as lead. Every step was excruciatingly painful, emotionally and physically.
He'd had that head behind my seat for days and I'd had no idea. I rode in that car with a fucking head behind my seat and I didn't even know. He'd waited until my most vulnerable moment to spring this particular horror. Those were the fucky-fucky head games he loved to play, and he was damned good at them.
I was married to pure evil and there seemed to be no escape. If I tried, I knew someone was going to die. Again.
To this day I still don't know how I kept my shit together, because I surely can't keep it together even thinking about it now.
How did I?
How could I?
Does the fact that I did make me a monster, too?
The questions and memories will haunt me forever.
As gruesome as this story is, and as many times as I've heard it, it's one of my favorites. You're such a damn good writer, but you have no idea of just how awesome you are. This shit is UNREAL, like kids-riding-on-the-back-of-a-big-ass-white-dog-Neverending-Story-unreal. How you got through THAT shit, I will NEVER know! Ok, now tell more of the story, Snippy, and don't leave out so much as a comma! Why THIS isn't a movie, I'll never know! *dumbfounded*
ReplyDeleteI'm trying to get it out. One small story at a time.
DeleteThank you for telling it. And you're a great writer, and it's a horrible, great story.
ReplyDeleteBut no, you're not a monster for keeping your shit together. That makes you a hero, not a monster.