HIS WISH

It had been days since the deed was done and Miller had hoped that by now, he’d stop seeing her everywhere. At first, he’d thought he was just hallucinating, or maybe even feeling guilty. But now he was convinced she was there; somehow, she was with him, even when he closed his eyes to sleep. 

“Shit” he exclaimed as he jolted from sleep, his brow furrowed with cold sweat wrapping himself with his shaking arms.

She had been there again. Still in that blood-stained T-shirt with the words, women are the future sprawled across the front in jagged letters and those ratty pajama shorts that worn thin at the fold of her thighs that he had come to loathe. This time she had grabbed him by the throat squeezing till he gasped and wheezed. He had tried to loosen her pale bony grip, but she held fast, overpowering him. He thrashed, eyes bulging, the blood oozing from his face while she grinned maniacally at him. It was only when the oxygen seized, and he thought he was dying that he relaxed in her grip and jolted from the horrible nightmare. She had to know that what he did wasn't personal; there was no vendetta. He only did what needed to be done. If it had been someone else, if someone else was chosen, she’d still be here, but she was chosen. There was nothing he could do.

“It wasn’t personal Maya!” he shouted into the black void, but his voice just echoed, ricocheting off the walls and stinging his ears. He’d told her this countless times, but she refused to leave him be.

She hadn't always been this vindictive. In fact, what drew him to her was her kindness. She wasn’t perfect but she complimented his more abrasive nature and most importantly she loved him. The nights he’d stumble home drunk she’d clean him up and look after him. She’d always sound a bit annoyed as he tripped over his feet dragging himself through the house and she would try to ignore him when he was sober again, but she never held out for long. He’d pull her in towards his chest and kiss her neck and she’d smile. She always used to say you're lucky I love you as she struggled to keep a straight face, and the truth was that he’d always felt lucky. No one else was like Maya, not anyone he’d met anyway. Maybe that's why he had expected her to forgive him for what he’d done. But it was obvious she was never going to. 

He stumbled to his feet and trudged to the bathroom flicking the light on and staring in the mirror at his reflection. The dark circles like rings on an aged tree were forming under his eyes and his forehead sported bright red splotches scattered like a constellation.

“Oh, for Fuck’s sake,” he said as he ran his finger over the bumps that were forming. 

He turned on the tap, splashing some cold water on his face and felt the chilliness calm his tensed jaw. He stood hunched over the sink, his face dripping with water, the tap still running as he struggled to gather himself. These days he felt as though he balanced a tsunami in the corner of his eyes, yet he was not one to cry. As he watched the water flow from the hollow pipe, he couldn’t recall why he had been standing there letting the water gush without recourse. But his hands felt glued to the porcelain beneath his grip, and he couldn’t bring himself to shut the water. He’d lost control of himself and all he could do was watch the water forcefully burst out of the tap. Then suddenly, almost without thinking he brought his hands under the pipe, feeling the water grow hot till it burned. He yanked at his hands, but they stayed put, wringing under the boiling water till he felt his flesh begin to melt. And there were no sounds to his screams, just hollow noise that ripped at his throat.  

The wringing stopped as strangely as it had started, and he grabbed the knob twisting it frantically to shut the water off. The tap was cold despite pouring boiling water a minute ago. What the fuck he said to himself as he examined the tap cautiously. There was no rational explanation, there was no way he could ever repeat it to a sane person. Yet his hands were scorched. He slowly backed away from the sink and dashed for his room, slamming the door behind him for posterity.   

It was her; he knew it was her, but it didn't matter much. He sounded unhinged just saying it to himself, he couldn’t risk anyone finding out. And even if someone did take him seriously, no one would ever believe she could do such a thing. No one had even noticed she was gone yet, something that baffled him more with every passing day. He waited for a phone call asking where she was, but he hadn’t gotten one, not yet at least. He hadn't wanted to do it, in fact, he hesitated at first. But that witch, Toula, or whatever she called herself had demanded her price and she swore that he would pay with his life as well as hers should he falter. He’d met Toula on one of those nights that he’d drank a little too much. She had seemed almost ethereal, her soft brown hair bounced off her back and blended into her flowing dress. And when she took his hand, he had felt weightless. She had one glass of a virgin mojito that she nursed for what seemed like two hours, and then she floated out just as she had come. He didn’t remember much of that night apart from that. In fact, once he was sober, he was convinced he had conjured her. But then he saw her again.

“When are you going to pay me what you owe me,” she said coming up to him

“What?” he asked puzzled

“You made a deal with me, you promised me Maya and you swore you would pay but you haven't,” she said her countenance hardening.

But Miller just threw his head back and laughed. There was no way she was real; he was sure of that now. 

“Shoo,” he said waving his hands in front of his face as he cackled drunkenly. 

“Fine,” she said nonchalantly, sporting a crooked smirk

“But it’s either you pay or you both die,” she said in a sing-song voice as she walked away. 

He’d seen her twice after that day. Both times he was completely sober. Both times she reminded him to pay his debts to her. The second time was in his dream as she dangled him over the edge of a volcano shrieking in delight while the lava spit hot fury his way. 

A few minutes had passed since the hot water debacle and his hands were still raw. His eyes darted from corner to corner, trying to catch a glimpse of movement. If he could see her now, he could beg, and maybe she would listen, but he felt eerily alone. 

“Please!” he shouted again into the void

“Please! I had no other choice”. His voice cracked as a tear broke loose and trickled down his cheek.

But there was no answer. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to tell her he didn't want to do it, that he’d tried to get out of it. He’d asked around for a Toula and had managed to track her down. That night he sat in his car outside the dingy trailer for half an hour before summoning the courage to knock. 

“Can you leave me alone, please” he begged to fall to his knees as she opened her door

“You made a deal Miller; she is to die, and you are to do it,” she said unfeelingly

“I don't even know what this is all about!” He yelled 

“I don't remember making a deal with you! But here you are following me like some fucking witch!” 

“I don't care!” she said her eyes blazing with fury

“You made your wish and I held up my part of the bargain. Now you come begging.” She spat.  

“There is no forgiveness here! There is nothing for you! Either you do it, or both of you die. Those are my terms” she said before shutting the door in his face. 

And that was that. He’d looked for her again, hoping she would change her mind, but her trailer was gone, and no one knew where she went or who she was. But she never failed to show up when he closed his eyes grinning as she found new ways to draw blood.

The windows rattled slightly as the breeze beat against the pane, and Miller pulled his knees into his chest, rocking slightly till he slowly drifted into a dreamless sleep; the first he had had in a while.

When the sun broke through the window, littering the floor with its yellowish hue, Miller stirred awake. He stretched his legs, groaning in pain before proceeding to rub his palm against his crusty eyes. Shit! He cried clutching his palms. His hands were still raw and with every movement, the sensation grew. Just what she’d like he thought. That Cruel Bitch. He had always seen their relationship as a blur of good moments littered with his few mistakes. But those rose-colored glasses were shattering under the weight of her wicked heel, and he was beginning to think he had been blinded. Perhaps she always loathed him, or maybe she stopped loving him somewhere along the way and she used his mistakes to distract from her cold heart. But he did his best for her. He wasn't perfect and she ought to have known that. No one was. In all their five years he had never cheated on her even when opportunities were flung at him but because he cared for her. He let her live in his house, and he footed their bills on his meager salary. He drank occasionally, but he always came home. Yet she never appreciated him, all she saw was the alcohol. She said it disgusted her to see him drink. That he needed help. But he wasn't even a drunk. It was always just a sip here and there and it helped him shed the stress he carried. Besides, alcohol made him feel good. She could never understand that though, she could only ever see him as a problem. 

 After hours of lying in bed, aimlessly scrolling through his phone with his weak fingers he stumbled into the kitchen looking for something to eat. He’d called out of work earlier citing a stomach flu, but he was starting to regret it a little. His job was shit but every morning, Mary the accountant would bring a box of donuts and he could kill for a donut right about now. Staring at the empty fridge he could just taste the sweet pastry and his stomach began to grumble. 

“Screw this,” he said and slammed the door. In a minute he was dressed and headed out the door. For a moment he thought about going to the office, but the donuts would be gone by now and he was supposed to have a stomach flu. So, he sat in the car for a few minutes before deciding to head for the bar. 

He’d been at the bar for two minutes and he’d already been hosed by a rogue soda tap and hit in the eye by a flying baseball. Who fucking throws baseballs in bars? He thought to himself as he walked into the men’s room hoping to wipe the soda out of his hair. She’d followed him here. She wasn't satisfied with the nightmares, and the burnt hands she wanted more; she wanted him in pain. But he already was, and he couldn't fathom how she could make him feel any worse. 

“Whiskey, Neat” Miller said to the bartender taking his seat on a nearby bar stool. 

“Here,” the bartender said as he slid the drink over to him before walking towards the other side of the bar. 

“Aaannother” he said banging his hand against the oak slab once the glass was empty. 

He was five drinks in, and his vision was getting blurry. He could see the bartender making his way over to him, but his face was distorted. When the bartender got into view, Miller jumped back knocking himself off the stool. It had been her. She was the bartender. 

“Why don't you leave me alone!” he said sobbing on the floor, but she had climbed over the bar, and she seemed to be making her way towards him. 

Racked with fear he scooted backward frantically still on the floor trying to escape her as she walked towards him.

“No No No No! Please!” he shouted but she wouldn't stop. When he hit a wall, she stopped before him and he hid his face in his hands, rocking from side to side.

“I’m sorry” he sobbed as he clutched his face.

“Hey what’s wrong with you man. Get up and stop dragging your ass ‘round this bar” 

Miller lifted his head, shocked by the voice to see the bartender standing over him, a confused look on his face. He looked around the bar to see everyone starring at him, some with genuine disgust. “Sorry,” he said nodding slightly towards the bartender as he slowly got up and dusted his pants before staggering to the door and into the crisp air. 

He’d been wandering around for a bit now trying to get back to his car, and the fog had lifted. It wasn't her he thought to himself as he strolled along the empty street trying to convince himself. It could have been her; the humiliation was just the kind of thing her sick mind seemed to like now. He wouldn't have done it if there was a way to save her, but there wasn't. It was all well and good though he thought to himself. Seeing what she had become, she was better dead. The night it happened he had grabbed a few drinks at the bar. Somehow, he was coherent enough to do what needed to be done, but he didn't remember much of what happened. But he felt it coming back now.

She’d greeted him at the door when he came, her face falling as she smelt the fog of liquor and smoke that surrounded him.

“Again, Miller?” she said with disgust standing in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. He barely pushed past her stumbling over to the living room and crashing on the couch. She turned following him as he struggled to make his way through the house. As he lay breathing heavily on the couch, he looked up to see her standing over his crumpled frame.  

“You said you were going to quit,” she said in a gritty tone as she shook her head.  

He struggled to respond as he felt the tears welling in his eyes. He had screwed up. He had disappointed her and now he had to kill her. He felt a teardrop and his resolve weakened as he felt himself beginning to sob. He could tell she was shocked, but the tears refused to stop. After a moment, she sat beside him, placing his head on her lap as she stroked his forehead.

“I made a deal, a wish” he began. “I thought it was fine but… but I don’t know what to do,” he said as the sobs racked his body. 

He waited for her to tell him it was alright, that they’d get through it together because they were a team. Hell, he would have even taken some sympathy. But she sat there in silence listening to him sob, not saying a word. After a couple of minutes, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m tired,” she said as she got up heading to the bedroom. She got to the door before pausing and turning around, her eyes sad with disappointment.

“You know what Miller” she began. “I’m tired of you. I’m tired of this shit, of the drinking, of the dumb fucking shit, of you expecting me to fix yet another thing you screwed up. I’m not sorry this time. Whatever you got, you probably fucking deserved it.”

“Well fuck you” he yelled after her as she walked away. She had become venomous, wicked, bitter. And over what? Everyone made mistakes, hell she made mistakes. That high horse was reaching the sky and she’d forgotten what ground looked like. She has never brushed him off like that or lashed out with such vitriol. What the hell had come over her? Did she know about Toula? It wasn’t his fault, none of this was. This was all Toula’s doing. And she was going to kill him if he didn’t pay up, she had made that very clear. Why would he let himself die to save Maya if she would be dead either way? This was the only option. It was self-preservation.

He waited till she was asleep then retrieved the axe from the basement and tiptoed to the room. She was there, sleeping softly, her chest rising and falling slowly with every breath. Seeing her sleeping so peacefully brought pain to his chest and he felt his stomach twisting on itself. I have to do it. I have to do it. I have to do it he chanted inside his head, but all that chanting just made his hands shake. As he neared her, he whispered a small prayer before swinging the axe down towards her throat. The dark blood began to seep into the mattress below her butchered neck and her mangled head which hung slightly off the edge of the bed. Still shaking he put the axe down and dragged her off the bed by her shoulders. He had made it to the door when he realized the gash was still spurting blood, staining the tiled floor. He dropped her body with a loud thud and stood over it, wondering how to get it out of the room. After a few moments, he decided he needed to finish it here, to contain it in one room. He picked up the axe and swung at the neck till the head was completely detached, then proceeded to detach the rest. When he was done, all that was left of her was pieces. 

He shuddered, shaking the memory away and trudged on till he found his car soon making his way back home. The house was dark when he arrived, and he made his way into the kitchen as his stomach grumbled still empty since morning. He looked around and noticed an opened box of Maya’s whole wheat cereal on top of the fridge. Better than nothing he thought as he grabbed it and made his way up to his room. No wonder she was bitter, look at what she ate. Not long after finishing off the cereal, he’d fallen asleep against his better judgment. She was there again, dragging him by a cord tied firmly around his neck through hot desert sand. The coarse sand peeled his skin and he cried in agony, but she never turned back. He awoke in a cold sweat again panting heavily and patting his body looking for sand burns. And as he settled, attempting to catch his breath he looked up he saw her. She was standing over him, kitchen knife in hand, the blood gushing from her neck. 

“Please” he begged, almost lifelessly but she just stood smirking.

“You sold my life to some witch,” she said, still holding the knife over his chest. 

That was the first time he’d heard her voice since she died, and a shiver ran through him. 

“Maya, I thought you loved me. Why can't you understand that I had no choice” he said weakly 

No response.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly 

“Oh, but sorry isn't good enough this time,” she said, her voice hard like steel

He lay quiet, he had spent his last dose of energy and he was through with being tortured. She raised the knife and plunged it deep into his chest as he sobbed quietly and twisted it till he stopped jerking. 

A week passed before anyone noticed Miller was missing and when they got to his house the body was gone. Only the blood-soaked mattress remained.