WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Sixteen: The sweater—it’s Jay’s! I designed it for him. It’s the one I gave him at Christmas.
photo by ldyck
The Sweater Curse
Chapter
Seventeen
Something draws me to the bench at the back of a bus shelter. I push past the
faceless mass. A man is sitting on the bench. I’m drawn to him.
Why? I don’t know him. Do I? Maybe. It’s hard to tell; his face
is buried in his hands. He is wearing the sweater.
“Do I know y—?”
He
mumbles two incoherent words into his palms.
“Sorry,
I—”
He
jerks his head up. “I said, go away!”
His
face is grotesque—torn pieces of flesh, oozing green pus. One eye
dangles from its socket, suspended there by strings of muscle. I want
to look away, but I can’t. I read his story right there on his
face. He’s a monster. He’s done harm, and his crime marked him.
Fear grips me. I want to run, but I’m paralyzed. I look at his
hands; they’re covered in blood.
“Leave
me alone!” He roars. He springs at me, catching my throat
in his vise-like grip, and squeezes. “She was a bitch like you! A bitch!” There are tears in his eyes. He squeezes harder, and I’m
suffocating. He’s dragging me into his Hell…
***
In
a glass-walled boardroom, businessmen in suits and ties sit around a
rectangular table. Garrett Smit stands in front of these men feeling
like a sheep among wolves.
Sweat pours from his forehead into his eyes. On the floor beside him,
an easel holds a chart.
"You
can." His voice quivers. He coughs, takes a sip of water, and
tries again. "You can clearly see by this..." He sweeps his
hand back—too far. "Ch—." The chart falls from the
easel to the fl— Garrett catches the chart but—
The
clients he had hoped to—he needed to impress push back their
chairs.
"Please,"
Garrett begs, "you need to—."
The
clients make a beeline for the door. Garrett is called into his boss'
office. And...
***
In
a quiet suburban neighbourhood, two women sit at a table in an
immaculate kitchen, sipping coffee.
Bev
Smit chats with her friend Mary as
she
weaves in yarn ends on the man's sweater she has just finished
knitting. The cuff on her shirt rides up, revealing a purple bruise.
"More
bruises, Bev?"
"I'm
a klutz." It’s the same excuse she always uses.
"You're
not his punching bag." Mary leaves the table. "Never
again!" She heads down the hall to the bedroom.
Bev
is in hot pursuit.
Mary
slides open the glass doors and finds a suitcase in the back of the
closet. She puts it on the bed, opens the drawers, and starts to
pack.
"Mary,
I can't." Bev notices the time on the alarm clock—5:40 PM. "I
need to start supper." She grabs the clothes out of Mary's
hands, stuffs them back into the bureau, and rushes down the hall to
the kitchen."
"What
are you going to make? I'll help."
"No,
Mary, you need to go. Garrett will be upset if he finds you here."
"Come
with me."
"I
can't."
On
the way to the door, Mary hugs her friend. "Call if you need
anything—night or day."
Alone,
Bev goes to the fridge and fills her hands with vegetables. She peels
and chops. As she works, she glances out the window. Headlights
pierce the night.
She
rushes to the freezer, grabs two pork chops, and puts them in the
microwave to defrost. She's taking the pork chops out of the
microwave when the front door flies open. She runs to greet him. "Hi,
honey. How was your day?"
"Peachy.
Just peachy." He spies the extra coffee mug on the table. "Who.
Was. Here?"
She
grabs the offending mug—"Mary. Only Mary."—and deposits
it in the sink.
"How
many times do I have to tell you? No visitors!" He roars.
"Yes,
I know. I'm sorry. She dropped by, and I—"
"You're
sorry. You're always sorry."
"Please,
please, don't be mad. I have... I have something for you." She
rushes into the bedroom, grabs the sweater, and rushes out.
"Wow,"
he mocks, "a sweater." He sneers.
"I
know it's not much...just a sweater, but... I made it for you. Please
try it on."
"All
right, all right. Oh, my God, woman." In the bedroom, in front
of the full-length mirror, he pushes his head into the neck, hands
into the sleeves and pulls it down over his body. He stands admiring
himself. And then he sees the suitcase.
Bev
tries to explain, apologize, beg, but Garrett isn't prepared to
listen. His anger boils over. He coils his fingers into fists and...
Someone
has to do something. Someone has to act.
Before
he can kick, slap, or punch, my fingers are around his neck. I’m
squeezing. He gasps for breath,
and it’s music to my ears. Music. I squeeze, squeeze until he is
dead.
Bev
falls to the floor beside him. She should be happy. Her attacker is
dead. He’s dead, and she’s safe. She’s free. I long to see her
smile, but instead, I hear her sobs. Bev draws her knees to her chest
and slowly rocks back and forth. “No, no, no, no,” she moans.
I
killed him for you!
I want to scream. I want to shake her and say, You’re
free! He’s
dead. I killed him.
And now you’re free.
Of
course, I can’t. She can’t hear me. She’ll never know what I
did for her.
Who
is killing these sweater-clad men?
Me.
Someone
needs to stop me. Someone needs to break the curse and set me free.
Someone… Someone… Maybe you?
Yes,
you.
Don’t
you see how he looks at you, like a lovesick puppy? I’ve crawled
inside his mind. I know he longs to touch you, hold you, kiss you,
make love to you. I know you love him. You should love him. He’s a
fine, gentle, loyal man.
Knit
my sweater for him. He’ll wear it, declare his love, and I’ll be
free.
Don’t
you see?
It’s
the only way.
Thank you for reading The Sweater Curse.
photo by ldyck
Canadian Cancer Society February Knitting Challenge
On this blog in February
...and the knitting continues...
Sunday, February 15
Knitting Patterns
7 knitting patterns that have received 1,000 page views or more on this blog.
Sunday, February 22
Rebellion
knitting-themed one-act play
New content shared on this blog each Sunday at approximately 4:40pm
Much thanks to Colleen Fraser (publisher, editor, and print production) for including my story in the current issue of the MayneLiner.
photos by ldyck
Items of interest for writers and readers...
