Read Online Someone Is Bleeding by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Matheson
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the life of me, visualize murder in those hands. I went in and sat on the bed by the suitcase.
“Peggy”
No answer.
I want to tell you why I didn’t come back this afternoon.”
“It doesn’t matter”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“I saw Jim this afternoon.”
”I see.”
Coldly. As if she were a woman who didn’t care for anything in the world. Instead of a shy, timorous girl afraid of the world and its multiple terrors.
I reached out and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t honor me with a struggle. She just stared straight ahead.
“He showed me a newspaper clipping, Peggy,” I told her. Her eyes moved down at me.
“It was the story of how you killed your husband,” I said. She shuddered and her wrist went limp.
“Jim also told me you were living on his money, not on alimony.” I said.
I wanted desperately for her to snap out angry words at me and make me know they were all lies. But she couldn’t. She didn’t speak. Then she said, softly:
“Let me go.”
“When you tell me why you lied to me. About so many things.”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said.
“Why?”
She bit her lower lip and kept her face averted.
“Peggy, I want some truth! Do you hear me?”
She cut off a sob.
“What sort of a girl are you,” I said, “who can speak of love and yet lie incessantly to the person you say you love? What kind of selfish girl are . . .”
“Selfish!”
She jerked away her hand violently.
“Selfish!” she said, “yes, I’m selfish! Very selfish! I was brought up by a father who hated me. Who did everything he could to make my life miserable. I was shuttled around from city to city, never having a home. Only hotels and motels and dingy little apartment houses near naval bases. I had boys try to rape me. I had older men try to proposition me. And to top it all off, I married an animal who dragged me through poverty and gave me nothing but filth in return. Filth, do you hear! A man who made me pregnant, then tried to force me to get an abortion! A man who had no regard for me. I was a piece of flesh to him. And I killed him and I’d kill him again for the things he did to me! And now . . . when I find something good for the first time . . . when I try to hold on to the only beautiful thing I ever had in my whole life . . . you call me selfish! Yes I’m s-s-selfish.”
Her back was turned from me. She shook violently, crying and trying not to cry. But unable to keep all the pent up misery of years from flooding out.
I got up quietly. I stood behind her. I put my hands up to hold her shoulders. Then I drew them back. I didn’t know. I felt terribly contrite. Everything seemed to fall into a pattern. Jim had colored an already ugly picture with even uglier hues. For his own purpose.
She cried for a long time. We sat on the bed and I kept drying her eyes with my handkerchief. Later I asked her about her marriage. She told me substantially what Jim had said.
“And the money?” I said.
“Money?”
“Jim’s.”
She looked at me unhappily. “Why . . . what’s wrong with that? If he wants to give it to me?”
“Baby, you’re being kept!”
“He never touched me, Davie.”
“It’s the idea, Peggy.”
She looked at me, a little frightened.
“Peg?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Did you . . . ?”
“What?”
I didn’t speak. Finally I said, “If you did it, Peg, I’ll understand, and I’ll stick by you. I’ll—”
“Love my memory?” she said.
“No, I—”
“I didn’t kill Albert,” she said.
I grabbed at it. I clung to it and it was like a tonic, the first moment of limp ease after a raging fever has abated.
“I believe you,” I said.
* * *
We moved her into the new place that afternoon, and I tried to get her to tell the police about Jim. But she refused with her little girl logic. Then I suggested that at least we ought to confront Jim himself with his lies, and she refused to do that, too. It wasn’t loyal, she said.
So I went alone
“Peggy”
No answer.
I want to tell you why I didn’t come back this afternoon.”
“It doesn’t matter”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“I saw Jim this afternoon.”
”I see.”
Coldly. As if she were a woman who didn’t care for anything in the world. Instead of a shy, timorous girl afraid of the world and its multiple terrors.
I reached out and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t honor me with a struggle. She just stared straight ahead.
“He showed me a newspaper clipping, Peggy,” I told her. Her eyes moved down at me.
“It was the story of how you killed your husband,” I said. She shuddered and her wrist went limp.
“Jim also told me you were living on his money, not on alimony.” I said.
I wanted desperately for her to snap out angry words at me and make me know they were all lies. But she couldn’t. She didn’t speak. Then she said, softly:
“Let me go.”
“When you tell me why you lied to me. About so many things.”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she said.
“Why?”
She bit her lower lip and kept her face averted.
“Peggy, I want some truth! Do you hear me?”
She cut off a sob.
“What sort of a girl are you,” I said, “who can speak of love and yet lie incessantly to the person you say you love? What kind of selfish girl are . . .”
“Selfish!”
She jerked away her hand violently.
“Selfish!” she said, “yes, I’m selfish! Very selfish! I was brought up by a father who hated me. Who did everything he could to make my life miserable. I was shuttled around from city to city, never having a home. Only hotels and motels and dingy little apartment houses near naval bases. I had boys try to rape me. I had older men try to proposition me. And to top it all off, I married an animal who dragged me through poverty and gave me nothing but filth in return. Filth, do you hear! A man who made me pregnant, then tried to force me to get an abortion! A man who had no regard for me. I was a piece of flesh to him. And I killed him and I’d kill him again for the things he did to me! And now . . . when I find something good for the first time . . . when I try to hold on to the only beautiful thing I ever had in my whole life . . . you call me selfish! Yes I’m s-s-selfish.”
Her back was turned from me. She shook violently, crying and trying not to cry. But unable to keep all the pent up misery of years from flooding out.
I got up quietly. I stood behind her. I put my hands up to hold her shoulders. Then I drew them back. I didn’t know. I felt terribly contrite. Everything seemed to fall into a pattern. Jim had colored an already ugly picture with even uglier hues. For his own purpose.
She cried for a long time. We sat on the bed and I kept drying her eyes with my handkerchief. Later I asked her about her marriage. She told me substantially what Jim had said.
“And the money?” I said.
“Money?”
“Jim’s.”
She looked at me unhappily. “Why . . . what’s wrong with that? If he wants to give it to me?”
“Baby, you’re being kept!”
“He never touched me, Davie.”
“It’s the idea, Peggy.”
She looked at me, a little frightened.
“Peg?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Did you . . . ?”
“What?”
I didn’t speak. Finally I said, “If you did it, Peg, I’ll understand, and I’ll stick by you. I’ll—”
“Love my memory?” she said.
“No, I—”
“I didn’t kill Albert,” she said.
I grabbed at it. I clung to it and it was like a tonic, the first moment of limp ease after a raging fever has abated.
“I believe you,” I said.
* * *
We moved her into the new place that afternoon, and I tried to get her to tell the police about Jim. But she refused with her little girl logic. Then I suggested that at least we ought to confront Jim himself with his lies, and she refused to do that, too. It wasn’t loyal, she said.
So I went alone
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