Read Online When We Join Jesus in Hell by Lee Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lee Thompson
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closet. He said, “I’m going to crack your skull open no matter what you do, understand? Your brains are going to leak out all over the carpet as we sit on the end of the bed and watch you die.”
Karen sobbed, her eyes clenched shut. She said, “Bethany…”
The rapist licked his lips. He tried menace but it hadn’t done what he’d hoped.
Karen said, “Fist, our daughter…”
He couldn’t hear her, didn’t want to hear her, his heart saying, No. Not yet. One thing at a time. I’m going to get you away from him then I’ll check on Beth. She’ll be okay. He didn’t hurt her. No one is going to hurt either of you .
Jesus said, “Put that fucking bat down or I will cut her goddamn head off, you hear me?”
“I can’t stop you,” Fist said, taking two steps toward the bed. He figured he’d have to jump over it to get at him, which was okay, it seemed like he enjoyed that when he was a kid, the propulsion you could get from a mattress. He wondered what his parents would say about him killing Jesus. If they’d hate him, think it damned his soul. He shrugged, figured it didn’t matter since nothing he did ever earned their respect.
Blood slicked Karen’s thighs. Fist wiped his tears away. Something primal grew in a dark patch behind his eyes. He saw blood. A lot of blood. He heard Jesus plea. A lot of pleas. Fist said, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” to Jesus, nodding at him, encouraging him to join in, “I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Though men bludgeon me. Though the wind rips at my skin and the heater in the car is broke and the blizzard came in suddenly, right? I’m not scared. You’re my guide. You guide my rock hard hand…”
“Shut up,” Jesus said. “Stop moving!”
But Fist couldn’t stop moving, even though he saw the knife digging deeper into Karen’s neck, disappearing inside her flesh, inch by awful inch, and the tears in his eyes were powerful, they were truth that he could feel, and he wanted to embrace everyone, say, See this is it. This is what we have to live by .
And a part of him hated himself because he thought this was better for her, to die here and now, than have to learn to live again because there was no way she’d feel safe, no way she’d be able to trust anyone no matter how much he was there for her.
He said, “The shadow at the door only lingers so long.”
Jesus glanced at the door, confused, the corded muscles in his forearm shiny with sweat. He said, “You’re making me kill her. You’re doing it. Stop, man. Back off.”
“There is no backing off,” Fist said. “It’s too late for that.”
He leapt on the mattress, sprang forward, watched the knife pull free and he dove through a spray of hot arterial blood that nearly blinded him, swinging the bat, thinking he had to connect with something, crush his pain, Karen’s pain, the pain of the world.
His spine hurt as he landed, twisted on his side, the wind knocked out of him. Jesus’ bare ass was halfway out the window, and Karen tried to hold her hand over the wound in her neck but her eyelids fluttered, lips moved soundlessly, and he crawled to her, said, “It’s okay, babe. I got you,” moving her hand and holding his palm flat to her neck.
He glanced at the phone on the nightstand but couldn’t hold her and reach it too. He yelled, “Bethany,” waited for her to come running in, knowing that she should never have to see this, no one, especially not a little eight-year-old girl who has no idea how hard life can be, should have to see this, but he needs her to dial 911, needs her to help save her mommy…
But she doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t come.
Karen shudders in his arms.
He holds her and cries until the warmth she once possessed has nearly vanished.
He lays her on the bed and looks at the open window, then the open door, then the phone. Somehow they’re all connected but he can’t figure out why. He looks at the
Karen sobbed, her eyes clenched shut. She said, “Bethany…”
The rapist licked his lips. He tried menace but it hadn’t done what he’d hoped.
Karen said, “Fist, our daughter…”
He couldn’t hear her, didn’t want to hear her, his heart saying, No. Not yet. One thing at a time. I’m going to get you away from him then I’ll check on Beth. She’ll be okay. He didn’t hurt her. No one is going to hurt either of you .
Jesus said, “Put that fucking bat down or I will cut her goddamn head off, you hear me?”
“I can’t stop you,” Fist said, taking two steps toward the bed. He figured he’d have to jump over it to get at him, which was okay, it seemed like he enjoyed that when he was a kid, the propulsion you could get from a mattress. He wondered what his parents would say about him killing Jesus. If they’d hate him, think it damned his soul. He shrugged, figured it didn’t matter since nothing he did ever earned their respect.
Blood slicked Karen’s thighs. Fist wiped his tears away. Something primal grew in a dark patch behind his eyes. He saw blood. A lot of blood. He heard Jesus plea. A lot of pleas. Fist said, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” to Jesus, nodding at him, encouraging him to join in, “I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Though men bludgeon me. Though the wind rips at my skin and the heater in the car is broke and the blizzard came in suddenly, right? I’m not scared. You’re my guide. You guide my rock hard hand…”
“Shut up,” Jesus said. “Stop moving!”
But Fist couldn’t stop moving, even though he saw the knife digging deeper into Karen’s neck, disappearing inside her flesh, inch by awful inch, and the tears in his eyes were powerful, they were truth that he could feel, and he wanted to embrace everyone, say, See this is it. This is what we have to live by .
And a part of him hated himself because he thought this was better for her, to die here and now, than have to learn to live again because there was no way she’d feel safe, no way she’d be able to trust anyone no matter how much he was there for her.
He said, “The shadow at the door only lingers so long.”
Jesus glanced at the door, confused, the corded muscles in his forearm shiny with sweat. He said, “You’re making me kill her. You’re doing it. Stop, man. Back off.”
“There is no backing off,” Fist said. “It’s too late for that.”
He leapt on the mattress, sprang forward, watched the knife pull free and he dove through a spray of hot arterial blood that nearly blinded him, swinging the bat, thinking he had to connect with something, crush his pain, Karen’s pain, the pain of the world.
His spine hurt as he landed, twisted on his side, the wind knocked out of him. Jesus’ bare ass was halfway out the window, and Karen tried to hold her hand over the wound in her neck but her eyelids fluttered, lips moved soundlessly, and he crawled to her, said, “It’s okay, babe. I got you,” moving her hand and holding his palm flat to her neck.
He glanced at the phone on the nightstand but couldn’t hold her and reach it too. He yelled, “Bethany,” waited for her to come running in, knowing that she should never have to see this, no one, especially not a little eight-year-old girl who has no idea how hard life can be, should have to see this, but he needs her to dial 911, needs her to help save her mommy…
But she doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t come.
Karen shudders in his arms.
He holds her and cries until the warmth she once possessed has nearly vanished.
He lays her on the bed and looks at the open window, then the open door, then the phone. Somehow they’re all connected but he can’t figure out why. He looks at the
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