My Ghost

Nightmares

Nightmares! These damn nightmares consume every ounce of sleep I try to get. You would think after six years of being without the man who beat me, at least twice a week, for twelve years, that the nightmares would eventually just stop. But instead, they grow, just as my rage does.

All I can think about is hurting someone. For no other reason than to own the power my husband had. To be somebody else's nightmare. To cause the pain and the fear that I once knew. To make someone else beg for death, as I had.

It's been a year since the last time this rage took over me. I hoped it would never return. I prayed that the last time, would be the last time. It's like having a split personality, only I'm fully aware of what I'm doing, and what is happening, I just have no control over it. The rage comes on, rushing through me like tidal waves.

I get out of the bed, shower, and dress. I brush my hair back tight, and wrap a rubber band around it, securely, already thinking of evidence that I don't want to leave behind. I put on my leather gloves, for the same reason. I know what I'm doing. But I just can't stop. I have to go quench this thirst. Armed with nothing more than a wrench, some duct tape, and a hunting knife, I head out into the night.

I have already planned ahead. When I do this, which it's been a year, but I stick with the plan, I use the service station on the corner of my block, to clean up. I always put a shopping bag of clothes, shoes, and a few other items, in the trash can of the little ladies room, which is located in the back of the service station where it's quite dark at night. I can always slip back there easily without being seen.

It's just after midnight as I round the corner into the alley a few blocks from my apartment building, when I see a possible victim. I watch him like a cat watches a bird, right before it pounces. I know right away he's no good. He struts like he thinks he owns the street. The woman with him looks afraid, she reminds me of myself, years ago. And then he verifies what I already know. For whatever reason, he slaps her. Rage! Rage is consuming my bones. He tells her to get her fat ass back inside, and stay out of his business. That is music to my ears. She is about to get a gift nobody ever gave me, that is, until I gave it to myself.

As she goes back inside, I ease up closer. I crouch down, in the shadows of the night, and wait for my chance. Someone else is coming. Another man walks up to him. They barely speak. They just make a quick exchange with their hands, obviously a drug deal, but I am unnoticed, invisible in my shadows.

As the visitor walks away, I use the loud, heavy sounds of his footsteps to camouflage my own. Then, when the visitor is around the corner, and out of sight, I rush in quickly. He never knows what hits him. I hit him as hard as I can, in the head, with the large wrench. But that's just to knock him out and keep him quiet. I have other plans for him.

I manage to drag him around to the back side of the building, keeping in mind that he would wake up very soon. I ripped a big piece of his shirt off, stuffed it in his mouth, and sealed his mouth shut with the duct tape to muffle his screams. He starts to move around a little, as I'm pressing on the last strip of tape.

I quickly grab hold of his right arm, with one hand gripping above his elbow, and the other gripping above his wrist. I place one foot on the inside of his armpit for leverage, and pull, as hard as I can, as fast as I can, and with a crunch, his shoulder is dislocated.

His muffled screams are quite loud, but not loud enough for anyone to hear, unless they were really close, which is always a possibility, but if I'm supposed to get caught, then I'll get caught.

With terror and disbelief in his eyes, he begins to swing at me with his other arm. All that manages to do is give me the chance to grab it. He's strong, but not strong enough. I dislocate his other shoulder in the same way. He screams even more this time, now that he's awake and full of adrenalin.

He's trying to talk, begging for me to stop, or screaming obscenities at me, I don't know which, and I don't care. But I don't say a word to him. There is plenty I would love to say, but he doesn't deserve an explanation for what's happening to him. He needs to just take it like a man. Those are words I used to hear from my husband from time to time, and I finally taught him the meaning of those words.

Now that I have his full attention, I show him my knife with a wicked little smile. That really gets him excited. He's pushing the ground with his feet, trying to slide away, backwards. The pain in his shoulders must be excruciating as he's scooting himself backward, because his horrified face is covered in tears, and he has urinated all over himself. But I think that may qualify as fear from what he knows is about to happen to him.

Just to show him how serious I am, I immediately slice off a finger. The screams coming through his nose are getting stronger and more panicked, now. His heart is beating so hard, I can hear it. This excites me beyond words. I am empowered by his weakness and fear.

I come down fast and hard with a stab to the top of the leg, then ripping through the large leg muscle, all the way down to the bone. He screams so loud and hard that he gets choked. Watching him scream and choke through his nose is quite amusing, but I'm pushing my luck not getting caught. He's about to pass out anyway, from all of the pain he's enduring. So, I gut him.

I had watched my grandpa gut deer many times when I was a kid, and I remember how it's done.

I do it so quick, that he gets to see his own intestines before he bleeds out and dies. The look on his face is priceless. Almost as priceless as the look on my husbands face, before I finished with him.