Weapons
by John Crosbie
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sharpness is not always with knives.
_____________________________________________________________________
Breathless, she shut and turned the lock on the bathroom door.
Her Grandmother called after her.
“Is that you hen?”
“Yes Gran.”
“You OK hen?”
“Not really, Gran, too much Buckie,” she said, less loudly.
Gran spoke again, but due to the sudden vomiting and the sound of the TV coming from the living room, she never quite heard her.
After spewing up into the lavvy the remaining wine and lager, she wiped her watering eyes with two leafs of toilet tissue.
She unzipped and dropped her jeans to the floor, slowly.
She looked at her underwear, and an instinctive heave commenced once more, but this time of no substance.
She carefully separated her pants from the inside fabric of the denim to see if any of the shit had soaked through.
It hadn’t.
House breakers were known to shit on the floor, she had heard about that.
But not this, not this shit.
She removed the boots, denims and underwear, leaving on the white blouse and black leather jerkin.
While the wash hand basin filled with hot water she set about wiping off the muck and placed the soiled knickers to steep in the soap suds.
She sat on the WC pan, going through the pockets of her jacket. The knife was there, should she have thrown it away? She held it, replaying the sweeping motion of earlier.
She stood up and looking into the mirror, drew the blade down her cheek, gauging the length to make the cut. A trace of blood remained on the blade.
Not her blood.
Not yet.
The weight of her grandmother caused the floorboards to creak outside, followed by a light knuckled knock on the door.
“You OK hen?” Gran asked again in her one worded way
“A’m jist feelin a wee bit sick, Gran, one cider too many A think,” she answered, watching the movement of her mouth in the mirror, as she placed the clean knife down.
“Ok hen.”
Unplugging the basin she then rinsed the soiled material under the cold tap and when clean enough she squeezed the sodden pants until the dripping diminished, and finally she dropped them in the bath.
She drew her face closer to the mirror.
She felt good actually. Considering. Considering the shit. She felt good.
What a feeling. She sang it, that song, but only whispering.
What a feeling.
Her face inches from the glass, her lips almost connecting with her own image.
Then the creak again.
“Any better hen?”
“A’m jist gonni run a bath, Gran.”
“Ok hen.”
She turned the taps on, but not fully, just letting the water slowly fill the bath and then she heard the creak again of her grandmother going back down. The theme tune from Casualty came from the living room as the door was opened and then shut again. A siren could be heard, but not from the TV … in the distance…from the park, maybe.
She picked up the knife once more, this time pressing it into the flesh on her face, pressing harder as the point of the carpet cutting blade spread the blood beneath her cheek, then disappearing, as soon as the pressure was eased off. Again she pressed, more, thinking how delicate that the soft barrier was to the flesh that lay beneath.
“You’re in big trouble now,” she whispered to herself, taking her thoughts back to the scene, back to the park.
“Am I?”
“DARLING,”
That’s what he said,
“DARLING,”
“What are you gonni dae fur me? ….DARLING,”
That’s what he said.
“Please …I,”
“Don’t worry ….DARLING,”
“Please,”
“A won’t hurt ye …DARLING,”
“Just leave me, put that away, please,”
“A’m jist showin’ ye it, it’s one of ma tools, that’s aw,”
“Please don’t hurt me,”
“Av goat another tool, wait an A’ll show you that tae,”
He pressed the knife into her throat and then quickly stood up to undo his trousers.
“Don’t fuckin move, don’t fuckin move,” he screamed at her, now pinning her down with the sole of his shoe on her head.
He staggered, struggling to loosen himself.
She raised a leg and kicked out, the long slender heel of her shoe piercing through his fumbling fingers. He dropped the knife and dropped onto his knees. She got herself up and kicked him, kicked him in his face, two or three times, a few times, more than three anyway.
She picked up the knife.
He fell onto his back.
She pulled down at his loosened jeans and into his underwear and gripped the tool by its fleshy shaft and … he screamed and she held on tight, he wriggled and he screamed, and she held on tight.
He gripped her arm, tighter, she tried to break free, tighter, he wouldn’t let her go, and she drew the blade down his face, the inner flesh exposing itself like rubber foam breaking free from a cheap cushion.
There was little blood.
She ran from the scene, she ran until she got here, in the bathroom, in this big trouble, this big big trouble.
Once more, she drew the blade down her cheek, this time lightly slicing.
The creak, again, it stopped her.
“Maybe a wee plate of soup will settle your stomach, hen?”
As quick as she could, she rummaged her arm around in the bath water, making out she was in it.
“Aye OK, I’ll be out in a minute.”
“OK hen.”
Gran always agreeing, always smiling and agreeing, Gran.
There was a knock at the front door.
The TV was silenced.
“Good evening officers,” she heard Gran say politely.
One of them spoke.
Then Gran.
Then the other one.
Then Gran.
“Good night then, officer.”
She came out from the bathroom, meeting Gran on the landing. It creaked.
“The police were wanting a wee word with you hen,”
“And?”
“Well, maybe later I told them, you’ll no be up for speaking tonight, what with you in bed all day with that bug, no, not this night.”
Gran took her hand.
“Now come on, some nice tomato soup will do ye good hen.”
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sharpness is not always with knives.
_____________________________________________________________________
Breathless, she shut and turned the lock on the bathroom door.
Her Grandmother called after her.
“Is that you hen?”
“Yes Gran.”
“You OK hen?”
“Not really, Gran, too much Buckie,” she said, less loudly.
Gran spoke again, but due to the sudden vomiting and the sound of the TV coming from the living room, she never quite heard her.
After spewing up into the lavvy the remaining wine and lager, she wiped her watering eyes with two leafs of toilet tissue.
She unzipped and dropped her jeans to the floor, slowly.
She looked at her underwear, and an instinctive heave commenced once more, but this time of no substance.
She carefully separated her pants from the inside fabric of the denim to see if any of the shit had soaked through.
It hadn’t.
House breakers were known to shit on the floor, she had heard about that.
But not this, not this shit.
She removed the boots, denims and underwear, leaving on the white blouse and black leather jerkin.
While the wash hand basin filled with hot water she set about wiping off the muck and placed the soiled knickers to steep in the soap suds.
She sat on the WC pan, going through the pockets of her jacket. The knife was there, should she have thrown it away? She held it, replaying the sweeping motion of earlier.
She stood up and looking into the mirror, drew the blade down her cheek, gauging the length to make the cut. A trace of blood remained on the blade.
Not her blood.
Not yet.
The weight of her grandmother caused the floorboards to creak outside, followed by a light knuckled knock on the door.
“You OK hen?” Gran asked again in her one worded way
“A’m jist feelin a wee bit sick, Gran, one cider too many A think,” she answered, watching the movement of her mouth in the mirror, as she placed the clean knife down.
“Ok hen.”
Unplugging the basin she then rinsed the soiled material under the cold tap and when clean enough she squeezed the sodden pants until the dripping diminished, and finally she dropped them in the bath.
She drew her face closer to the mirror.
She felt good actually. Considering. Considering the shit. She felt good.
What a feeling. She sang it, that song, but only whispering.
What a feeling.
Her face inches from the glass, her lips almost connecting with her own image.
Then the creak again.
“Any better hen?”
“A’m jist gonni run a bath, Gran.”
“Ok hen.”
She turned the taps on, but not fully, just letting the water slowly fill the bath and then she heard the creak again of her grandmother going back down. The theme tune from Casualty came from the living room as the door was opened and then shut again. A siren could be heard, but not from the TV … in the distance…from the park, maybe.
She picked up the knife once more, this time pressing it into the flesh on her face, pressing harder as the point of the carpet cutting blade spread the blood beneath her cheek, then disappearing, as soon as the pressure was eased off. Again she pressed, more, thinking how delicate that the soft barrier was to the flesh that lay beneath.
“You’re in big trouble now,” she whispered to herself, taking her thoughts back to the scene, back to the park.
“Am I?”
“DARLING,”
That’s what he said,
“DARLING,”
“What are you gonni dae fur me? ….DARLING,”
That’s what he said.
“Please …I,”
“Don’t worry ….DARLING,”
“Please,”
“A won’t hurt ye …DARLING,”
“Just leave me, put that away, please,”
“A’m jist showin’ ye it, it’s one of ma tools, that’s aw,”
“Please don’t hurt me,”
“Av goat another tool, wait an A’ll show you that tae,”
He pressed the knife into her throat and then quickly stood up to undo his trousers.
“Don’t fuckin move, don’t fuckin move,” he screamed at her, now pinning her down with the sole of his shoe on her head.
He staggered, struggling to loosen himself.
She raised a leg and kicked out, the long slender heel of her shoe piercing through his fumbling fingers. He dropped the knife and dropped onto his knees. She got herself up and kicked him, kicked him in his face, two or three times, a few times, more than three anyway.
She picked up the knife.
He fell onto his back.
She pulled down at his loosened jeans and into his underwear and gripped the tool by its fleshy shaft and … he screamed and she held on tight, he wriggled and he screamed, and she held on tight.
He gripped her arm, tighter, she tried to break free, tighter, he wouldn’t let her go, and she drew the blade down his face, the inner flesh exposing itself like rubber foam breaking free from a cheap cushion.
There was little blood.
She ran from the scene, she ran until she got here, in the bathroom, in this big trouble, this big big trouble.
Once more, she drew the blade down her cheek, this time lightly slicing.
The creak, again, it stopped her.
“Maybe a wee plate of soup will settle your stomach, hen?”
As quick as she could, she rummaged her arm around in the bath water, making out she was in it.
“Aye OK, I’ll be out in a minute.”
“OK hen.”
Gran always agreeing, always smiling and agreeing, Gran.
There was a knock at the front door.
The TV was silenced.
“Good evening officers,” she heard Gran say politely.
One of them spoke.
Then Gran.
Then the other one.
Then Gran.
“Good night then, officer.”
She came out from the bathroom, meeting Gran on the landing. It creaked.
“The police were wanting a wee word with you hen,”
“And?”
“Well, maybe later I told them, you’ll no be up for speaking tonight, what with you in bed all day with that bug, no, not this night.”
Gran took her hand.
“Now come on, some nice tomato soup will do ye good hen.”
About the Author
John Crosbie was born in Milngavie. The son of acclaimed Scottish novelist Agnes
Owens, he is a writer of short stories, plays and screenplays. John’s blog can be found at http://chaserjay.wordpress.com