Read Online What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Zombier by Allison Wade - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allison Wade
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house. Sometimes it happens, at night, in the dark, while you’re under your blanket, and suddenly you hear these snaps and you jump, with adrenalin pumping all over your body. You curse quietly and feel stupid for being scared by nothing.
Now you stopped chewing and you’re listening. Still you don’t hear a thing, just some noise coming from the street, a car passing by once in a while. You shake your head and continue reading.
Yes, I know, I’m getting tiresome, and the story of the eviscerated girl wasn’t so scary. Even if you knew her, maybe you met her a couple of times at the store of your neighborhood, and maybe what happened to her could have occurred near your premises, even behind your very house.
Admit it. That is kind of disturbing. Now you would like to go back and check if you really closed the door, and maybe you will close the window too, since by this time it’s kind of cool outside.
While you’re there, take a look at the yard, where I said before. But with the new moon you can’t see a thing, and you don’t want to bother the neighbors turning on the external light. It would be silly, like admitting you’re scared.
Anyway, check that drawer, do you mind?
Okay, you don’t have a photographic memory, and you couldn’t make an inventory of all the flatware. You honestly don’t know how many knives there were inside, so it’s difficult to say if something is really missing or it’s just an impression.
Or the suggestion I created with this wall of text.
Here you are again, in front of the screen, following my train of thought, wondering if that’s all. Thinking, all right, good try, but you haven’t scared me a bit.
What a pity, it would have been a funny game.
Let’s end it here, if you like.
Now you can turn around.
I’m right behind you.
Counting
“It’s ten fingers.”
“I can see it.”
“Five for each hand.”
“Obvious.”
“So, where’s the rest of the body?”
Violence
Hide and Seek
“Agatha, where’s your little brother?” Mom goes outside on the porch.
“We were playing hide and seek, but I can’t find him anymore,” she smiles, clumsy in her Sunday dress.
A drop of blood on her shoe.
I Spit on Your Grave
One drop for the first slap.
I passed in front of the TV while you were watching the game.
One drop for the bruise on my arm.
I burned the dinner and you were hungry and tired and held me so tight that I thought the bone would break.
One drop for the time you used your belt.
The bank account was in the red. I had to buy a new refrigerator, because the old one was broken, the reparation would have cost more than changing it. Where would have we kept cool your fucking beer?
You’d already spent everything gambling and buying your new car, because a fucking man must show he’s a real man, he can’t go around with a sissy wreck.
You looked at the bank statement, and then you looked at me. I became an ugly bitch, and you took off your belt and started to whip my legs, until I fell to the ground, screaming and crying. I wore the bruises for too many days.
One drop for every fist you gave me.
When you came home drunk and your way to say it with a flower was beating me up, because life sucks and I didn’t understand a fucking thing, stupid, privileged housewife that didn’t have to deal with the world.
I spat blood, too, so many times I lost the count.
How many drugs does it take to put to sleep a motherfucker?
First, I wanted to poison you, with rat poison; I thought about it a hundred of times. They say that poison is a weapon for women. Or cowards. I don’t want to be a coward.
I uncap the bottle of your fucking beer and pour inside the drops I counted; they fall down like all the tears you drew out from me. I serve you like a slave, while you lay sloppy in front of the TV, with your shirt stained of sauce, fat and sweaty like a pig. I still wonder how I managed
Now you stopped chewing and you’re listening. Still you don’t hear a thing, just some noise coming from the street, a car passing by once in a while. You shake your head and continue reading.
Yes, I know, I’m getting tiresome, and the story of the eviscerated girl wasn’t so scary. Even if you knew her, maybe you met her a couple of times at the store of your neighborhood, and maybe what happened to her could have occurred near your premises, even behind your very house.
Admit it. That is kind of disturbing. Now you would like to go back and check if you really closed the door, and maybe you will close the window too, since by this time it’s kind of cool outside.
While you’re there, take a look at the yard, where I said before. But with the new moon you can’t see a thing, and you don’t want to bother the neighbors turning on the external light. It would be silly, like admitting you’re scared.
Anyway, check that drawer, do you mind?
Okay, you don’t have a photographic memory, and you couldn’t make an inventory of all the flatware. You honestly don’t know how many knives there were inside, so it’s difficult to say if something is really missing or it’s just an impression.
Or the suggestion I created with this wall of text.
Here you are again, in front of the screen, following my train of thought, wondering if that’s all. Thinking, all right, good try, but you haven’t scared me a bit.
What a pity, it would have been a funny game.
Let’s end it here, if you like.
Now you can turn around.
I’m right behind you.
Counting
“It’s ten fingers.”
“I can see it.”
“Five for each hand.”
“Obvious.”
“So, where’s the rest of the body?”
Violence
Hide and Seek
“Agatha, where’s your little brother?” Mom goes outside on the porch.
“We were playing hide and seek, but I can’t find him anymore,” she smiles, clumsy in her Sunday dress.
A drop of blood on her shoe.
I Spit on Your Grave
One drop for the first slap.
I passed in front of the TV while you were watching the game.
One drop for the bruise on my arm.
I burned the dinner and you were hungry and tired and held me so tight that I thought the bone would break.
One drop for the time you used your belt.
The bank account was in the red. I had to buy a new refrigerator, because the old one was broken, the reparation would have cost more than changing it. Where would have we kept cool your fucking beer?
You’d already spent everything gambling and buying your new car, because a fucking man must show he’s a real man, he can’t go around with a sissy wreck.
You looked at the bank statement, and then you looked at me. I became an ugly bitch, and you took off your belt and started to whip my legs, until I fell to the ground, screaming and crying. I wore the bruises for too many days.
One drop for every fist you gave me.
When you came home drunk and your way to say it with a flower was beating me up, because life sucks and I didn’t understand a fucking thing, stupid, privileged housewife that didn’t have to deal with the world.
I spat blood, too, so many times I lost the count.
How many drugs does it take to put to sleep a motherfucker?
First, I wanted to poison you, with rat poison; I thought about it a hundred of times. They say that poison is a weapon for women. Or cowards. I don’t want to be a coward.
I uncap the bottle of your fucking beer and pour inside the drops I counted; they fall down like all the tears you drew out from me. I serve you like a slave, while you lay sloppy in front of the TV, with your shirt stained of sauce, fat and sweaty like a pig. I still wonder how I managed
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