Read Online Among the Living by Timothy Long - Free Book Online

going to see each other again.” Then she slips inside and closes the door. Home at last, and boy is she glad for the comfort. She can’t help but feel dirty from the night before, dirty and used. Her back, thighs, and ass are a constant wave of pain as she moves. Pain that makes her focus her thoughts. Pain that makes her hot when she thinks of the night before, not the killing but the way the bastard made her sit in the chair and took the flogger to her with a passion. She wonders what it would be like to have Bob do the same to her and feels a warm rush between her legs.
    Maybe she will go to bed and think about it a bit more while satisfying herself. Then she sees the image of the guy she butchered, and she is no longer horny. She just wants to curl up and die.
     
     

Mike
     
     
    “Turkey bacon avocado!” she calls out in accented English. She is the only one working at the deli, so it takes a couple extra minutes. It’s quieter than usual; the other customers have long since departed. I go to pay and grab a bag of spicy chips on the way. When she zips my credit card, I notice that she looks haggard, keeps glancing at the clock, which hangs next to a full wall map of South Korea. There are pictures of military transports on the wall as well; the owner used to fly for the Air Force.
    “Where’s Lou?”
    “He not feeling well.” She clenches her face, which tells me he is probably sitting at home on the crapper. I feel sorry for him, but it’s not like we are best friends. I only shoot the breeze with him while I wait for food.
    The walk back is warmer. It seems like the sun is making a comeback over the morning clouds, so I take my time. There are others on the street, but I’m used to seeing more people. I walk toward Puget Sound. The mountains cut a beautiful sight against the backdrop of hazy sky. Boats flit here and there on the dark water, making bright white wakes. A ferry is powering toward the islands across the water.
    When I get back to my desk, my cell buzzes again. Rita. I snap open the phone.
    “You doing okay?”
    “Yeah. There is so much yelling, though. There are police everywhere.” I hear the clink of ice in a glass as she tosses something back.
    “What’s going on?”
    “I don’t know. There was fighting a few doors down, and then it stopped. I heard banging and lots of loud steps.” She pauses to take a breath and then slurs into the phone, “Then all these cops were here with guns drawn. I think someone may be hurt or there was a fight.”
    The glass clinks again.
    Rita lives in a small apartment on Capitol Hill. We used to have a house out in Auburn, but we ended up moving into different places during the divorce. After the settlement, I didn’t have to worry about money to take care of Rita and the house, so in an unusual moment of clarity, I paid down our loan and refinanced the remainder at a honey of a rate. Now I have a mortgage that is less than most people’s car payments, and she can afford a nice apartment near the city.
    It’s really pathetic that a woman who used to be an architect lives alone and is content to sit around her tiny apartment with her computer and a TV for company. Not to mention the ever-present plastic jug of vodka.
    “Can you see anything?”
    I hear her slide the curtains back. I can see the scene in my head, the circular parking lot full of cars. The road that leads out encompassed by trees. It may be an inexpensive place to live, but it is very well kept.
    “There are some people moving around. I think the cops are trying to arrest someone. Um ...”
    “What do you see?”
    “He ... he’s a big guy, and he’s covered in blood.”
    This gives me pause. Should I leave work and rush over there? If I call a cab, it can probably get me there in fifteen or twenty minutes. The police probably have the situation in hand, and it will just depress me to see my ex-wife drunk in the middle of the day. I wonder if she would be seeing what she is