Page 119 of Dark Ugly Places

He gets up and lunges for Bambi, unsteady on his feet, powered by the jolt of adrenaline inside him. Bambi darts into the foyer, her eye on the garage door down the lit hallway. Jason catches her hair in his fist and yanks her to the ground. Her hand clips the edge of a crystal vase, and she pulls it down with her, smashing it to the ground. Tiny fragments of crystal scatter over the floor, flying wildly in every direction as she falls. They press into her flesh, one piercing her right knee when she lands, Jason above her, his hands around her neck, squeezing.

53

Martha

Bambi is turning the same blue color as the refrigerator’s inside light. A cool, pale hue washes over her while her hands claw wildly at the floor. Jason is above her, one knee bent ironically like a knight, the other aloft, the EpiPen jutting out of his thigh. Four steps, five, six behind him, maybe, his back arched and muscular in the sallow kitchen light. I stand watching, hidden from view, an incredible calm coming over me.

Counting now.

One.

Two.

Three.

Hold, steady, little bird.

Jason’s eyes bulge. There it is. The faint recognition forming. He releases Bambi and stumbles back, coughing, choking, clutching his chest.

With one hand, he yanks the EpiPen from his leg. Bambi stands, arms out wide, gasping for air. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s … It’s not working.”

Jason runs from the room, staggers really, and heads to the office next. Bambi follows. I listen to the footsteps, the sounds of the drawer opening, the pen being uncapped, the groan from his lips as he drives another needle into his thigh.

A little smile creeps over my mouth.

Perfect. Beautiful.

Coughs and wheezes. It won’t be long now.

“Breathe, breathe!” Bambi cries out. I hear her run upstairs and down again, yet another couple of pens in her grasp from his travel bag and the upstairs bathroom. These are the last two.

“Just do it!” he shouts, his voice weaker. “It’s not working!”

There’s a slight crash, then the sound of the remaining two pens uncapping. He must have grabbed them from her because I hear his voice cry out, like an animal in distress. Four needles of epinephrine. Not one of them working. What a shame.

“I’ll call 911!” Bambi shouts.

She runs back to the kitchen, where I’m there, waiting with her phone in hand. “No, you won’t,” I say, pocketing it.

“I have to!” she shouts at me. “The pens aren’t working!”

I can’t help the smile. All those days searching, carefully. I had to be sure there wouldn’t be any I’d missed. It had taken so long, and I’d been so diligent. I cannot let her spoil it now.

“He’ll go into shock,” she says, her voice low. “He could die.”

Before I can answer her, Jason plummets into the room, his face bloated, red, his hands clutched and clawing at his throat and chest. Desperate. Pathetic. Limp.

He catches sight of me. “You! You fucking did this.”

Amazing the beast can still speak!

He runs toward us with surprising speed and plucks a kitchen knife from its holder.

“You fucking bitch,” he cries, throat of glass and dirt. He lunges at us with the knife, as Bambi scoots her way toward me, nearer to the stove. Instinctively, I back into it, then find something heavy with my hand—the Maglite flashlight. I grab its handle, my arm braced. Bambi clutches my arm, one hand outstretched. “Jason, stop! Put the knife down! We’ll call for help!”

Jason leans forward onto the counter, knife in his hand. He points the tip at me, a jabbing accusation on his lips. “I always knew you’d be a problem,” he half-whispers, his throat nearly closing.