Middle Rage

Part 10 -- Oma

Which brings me to my real problem. Serial killers don't get caught because they prey on other invisibles. Sex workers, low income or homeless people, drug addicts, so-called runaways. And most importantly, strangers. I'm going for the highly visible: a white guy with a steady job who lives down the street.

And of course, my major disadvantage: physical size. I can't easily grab a man and stuff him in my car, can't drag his dead body very far, don't have the upper body strength to hacksaw his corpse into pieces, stuff it into trash bags, and throw it over the side of a bridge. I can start lifting weights, but the truth is, if I don't take Dan out on my first try, he'll probably damage me in some telling way, assuming he doesn't end up killing me.

The light in the kitchen has shifted and when I take a step to check the clock, my legs are a sore from standing and my hand aches when I unclench to put the knife away. 2:16. I have to get to the store right now if I'm going to get that casserole stuff for Dan in time to be back to meet my kids after school and take my son to band practice. Oh shit, I'll still have to cook something for dinner too.

#

"Courtesy code 3...5...5...2," an automated voice beckons over the grocery store speaker. I lug two gallons of water into my cart. I pick up heavy duty LAVA soap, thinking how it would be easiest to make it look like Dan killed himself. A gun would give me the upper hand, and if I shot him in the mouth, maybe nobody would ask too many questions about his death. In the cleaning aisle, I select a container of bleach, lavender scented. I toss three packets of rubber cleaning gloves into my cart: Yellow and bright pink. Assuming I pull it off, this is going to be the most princessy murder kit ever.

Maybe I could buy a gun off Craigslist, or find a gun show. With all the school shootings, everyone's always angry how easy it is to get a gun. But I don't know how easy it is to get one that can't be traced back to me. Plus, there's this uncomfortable but undeniable fact: I don't want Dan to get off so quickly. I mean, if I'm going to risk going away for murder, I want something better than the last ten seconds of the Sopranos. I lean on my grocery cart for a moment, imagining Dan's face as the last thing he'll ever think flashes through his head: it's me that's gotten the better of him.

"Excuse me!" A woman behind me sniffs. I am parked in the center of the aisle.

"Sorry," I murmur and push off to the frozen foods. Fuck all if I'm making Dan anything. He can heat up a frozen lasagna like the rest of us. For a moment, I consider getting him the chicken enchiladas instead.

How easy it would be to poison the very thing I'm bringing over. Oleander grows all over this town. I imagine plucking some leaves, tearing it up like oregano, layering it under some extra cheese on top a frozen meal. Maybe they wouldn't even catch me, if I could lure Dan out to eat on the porch. An accident of the wind. What would it look like? Could I stay and watch, or would I have to wait at my bedroom window for the ambulance lights to strobe though our neighborhood like a Christmas parade?

Omigod. I can't do this. I can't really kill someone. What's up with this extended, messed up fantasy? The contents of my cart loom at me. I throw a box of lasagna on top of most of my dream kill kit, obscuring it from view. Then, cursing, I throw the frozen chicken enchiladas in my cart as well. My family has to eat too.

#

I am at Dan's door early, hoping to miss him, lasagna cool and thawed in the fridge instead of heated. Still in its box, completely sealed, to keep me from doing anything to it. All the cleaning agents under the sink whispered my name this afternoon, begging to be added. I had to go upstairs and take a shower to resist.

At Jenn's immaculate front porch, I ring the doorbell once and am already setting the red box on the seat of a porch swing that looks as if it has never been used when Dan opens the door and half steps out. He's in a velour crimson bathrobe, and reaches for the lasagna before I can put it down, brushing against my arm even as he says hello.