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.
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
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photos by ldyck
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