Sister Dear

 The second installment in the series of Nerve Impulse. The first story can be found at http://splinterfiction.wordpress.com/2007/06/27/nerve-impulse/

Bastard.

Please.

Don’t die.

Not yet.

I want to kill you.

A pistol is a simple thing to get in this country, whether in a store or a back alley, registered or illegal. If you’ve got the right amount of money, know the right people, you’ll find one.

I’ve never been a caring person, not about my family or even my husband. It’s like I’m a hooker in a vending machine with him: pop in some quarters, or in this case some twenties, you give a blowjob or you let him try anal ‘just this once’.

It can make you bitter.

Bitter enough to get him to buy you a gun.

Not that I would kill my husband.

No, that would be too predictable. Mariticide, the murder of a spouse, is one of the most common types of murders committed by woman today in the United States.

So, no thanks. I’ll stick to the cleaner, less suspicious killings.

Not that I’ve killed anyone.

Not me.

Not yet.

But back to the matter at hand. A pistol. Your little avenging tool of death. The weapon giving your to bypass the power of judge and jury, speeding past all that to simple death.

Unless they catch you.

Then there’s that whole tedious trial with witnesses and lawyers, evidence and evidence to counter that evidence, over and over again until you’d like to scream at them to pull the fucking trigger already, ready the goddamned lethal injection.

So don’t get caught.

I tuck this shiny little pistol into my purse, a silver L that fits perfectly into my hand and the patent leather Gucci handbag by my side. There are definite perks to being a woman with such an innocent-looking bag hanging off of her shoulder, a place to hide everything you need out in the open.

My purse, officer? Why would you want to see that?

It’s an advantage.

I carefully apply makeup, the camoflauge that I need to meet the outside world, the outside world where everyone judges you by the amount of chemical colors and scents on your face and in your hair, the fit body you have. Your dark red lips and eyes encircled with dark eyeliner. Your tight ass and your firm breasts.

Don’t bust your ass in the gym and you won’t be a trophy wife fuck machine with the power to do what you want for a few boring minutes filled with overly masculine groans.

Just a few boring minutes out of your busy, busy schedule.

I walk down the empty hall to the door leading to the garage when I hear my husband calling.

“Honey? Where are you going?”

“Out.” An overused response in this house, but hey, he only cares if the vending machine isn’t working. He falls silent and I get in my car and leave.

This city is full of shit and terror, full of the human waste that we all are. Pardon me for sounding pessimistic, but nihilism is the last thing to believe in during this day and age.

With nothing left to believe in and one last task awaiting me before I descend into Dante’s special place, I pull into the combination gas station/hotel on the outer limits of the city I live in. I check my cute little purse for the gorgeous little firearm waiting for me inside. Hello, sweet, high powered Colt M1911 pistol with 7 bullets that can fit in the magazine and one additional in the chamber. For now, I’ve just got one bullet.

I don’t intend to miss this shot.

I smile at the man inside the gas station and he leers back at me, ugly face slobbering at the sight of such a woman at his little pisshole of a business.

I don’t deny that I’m beautiful. You’ll find no false modesty here, no reason to say that I don’t have anything to write home about. I do love my long black hair, my eyes of a deep green, two pools of demon-fire that lead straight down to the pits of hell, as one of my ex’s so eloquently described them.

I do enjoy compliments.

I’m now ascending the stairs to the second floor of the hotel and a man pushes by me, face impassive, his eyes moving only to stare into my cleavage as he passes.

Prick.

I watch as I move along the row of numbers at this small hotel with its nine numbered rooms.

One.

I wonder how my brother will react to me finding him here.

Two.

I imagine he won’t have remembered what he’s done to deserve the next event about to visit him.

Three.

I wonder if he remembers killing his mother and the innocent woman.

Four.

I wonder if he’s still driving that woman’s car.

Five.

Here we are.

And then he stops me.

“Think carefully about what you’re doing.”

“He’s dangerous.”

I shouldn’t have responded. I’m just fueling my stupid overreactive imagination and the tall man with the rag around his eyes leaning against the wall is just an illusion.

“He needs help. You need to help him.”

I tear my eyes away from him. It’s just exhaustion. I haven’t slept since my mother died, and now my mind, sleep-deprived for two weeks, is been making up people to keep me company in my insomnia.

“Fuck off.”

“Yes yes, finish what you need to do. Kill your brother and be done with him.”

Now this jackass is joining the conversation. As if there wasn’t enough craziness to start a group conversation with a tall man in a ratty plaid shirt who’s blindfolded and a sadistic looking bastard in shorts and a Disturbed t-shirt, both of whom happen to not even be there.

“Shut up. Both of you. The die is cast and tonight my brother is dead.”

On that note I reach into my tiny bag and remove the large knife that sits next to the Colt pistol. I shove the sharp blade into the lock of my brother’s hotel room.

With a crack the lock breaks open and I draw out the Colt. I kick in the door.

Damn.

Someone got here before me.

I can see that by the blood splattered on the bed and what remains of his head that my vengeance is already taken.

Damn

I had been looking forward to that.

I turn away from the room and quietly close the door. The two men look at me expectantly. I stare back at them.

Then I realize.

The man on the stairs.

It was him.

The prick.

Someone else with as big a grudge as I had against him to find a detective and track down the bastard. Some one who was quicker than me.

The man with the blindfold says to me, “Don’t pursue this. It will only end in blood and tears.”

The other one says nothing, just licks his lips and looks excited. He knows what I’m going to do.

“Then bring on the bleeding and crying.” I start to walk away from room number five and I stop. I turn and look at these two strange individuals. With a cold realization I feel the truth. They’re not made up in my head. I speak again.

“Who are you two?”

They both say nothing for a moment. The blindfolded man suddenly pipes up.

“The Muse of Forgiveness and the Muse of Vengeance.”

“Well then,” I grin. This was interestingly insane. “One of you is my new best friend.” I pivot on my heel and start to walk down the stairs.