“BEAUTY and the BEAST” by Rivka Anonymous, written on the 30th of September 2013 in Earl Bales Park, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
I bought the perfect knife at the Army-Navy Surplus store. It was ten inches long and serrated on one side with giant teeth like an ancient shark. A big game knife… for butchering deer or elk. Wow, it was an impressive and ominous thing – scary just to look at – and sharp as the sting of my lover’s rebuke. Unfortunately, I had it laying on the kitchen counter when Jeff came over. It was irresistible to him. I left the room for three seconds; he unsheathed it, and grasped it tightly in his right hand. I walked in on the two of them and stopped dead in my tracks. I inhaled sharply. Jeff looked up from the glinting steel blade. “You shouldn’t have touched that.”, I said limply. “You put your fingerprints all over it.” We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. “I never meant for that to happen.”, I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you talking about?”, he asked with some sharpness in his voice, as he re-sheathed the exquisite hunting knife. All ten inches. And then I said the phrase that all jilted women have said at the moment the plan comes together in their mind: ‘Nothing, honey.”
“Good”, he replied crisply, ” ’cause I want to go now, eh?” I snickered. I love his Canadian-speak. Why does he have to be so damn cute? I sighed. Mustering up some fake cheer, I chirped, “Alright. Well, let’s go then!” And the incident was forgotten… at least, by him.
The next day I was riding the #7 bus on Bathurst Street and I spotted our park, Earl Bales Park. Impulsively, I jumped off the bus and went for a walk in the woods. I had my headphones blasting loud pop music in my ears to block out the world. I looped one song over and over… “You’re up all night to have fun. We’re up all night to get lucky. We’re up all night to get lucky. To get lucky. To get lucky.” Twenty minutes I played that song, then I saw that I was deep in the woods and alone. It was kind of scary, actually. “This is the place. Right here.” I took photos with my camera phone so I would remember; and then I talked to God.
God, you fucked me over. I left my family and my home to move to Toronto and marry this guy, and now he isn’t sure? What the fuck is that? You know how I feel about him. I am totally obsessed. When we are apart, a day seems like a month to me. Why does Time freeze like that when I need it to speed up? But then he comes to me, and I glow. He is the sunshine. You really must be an amazing Creator to give birth to someone so glorious. What a special and valuable Man you created. It’s no wonder I light up when I am near him. The only time I feel alive is when he takes me in his arms, when I feel his heartbeat against my cheek and his chest raising and lowering with every breath; that moment is Shabbat. He kisses my forehead. He kisses my cheeks. But then he pushes me away! Why? Every other moment is either waiting for Shabbat or remembering Shabbat. Why does he torture me so? Why can’t I stay in his arms all the time? I mean, yeah, sure, we have to go to work and stuff, but God, he doesn’t want to marry me! I would praise you for the rest of my life if you would but let me marry him, respectfully. I would serve you with joy and obedience forever. But, nooooo… Nothing for Ruth. Shame and loneliness for Ruth. Ridicule and gossip for Ruth. I don’t think so! I don’t have to accept this blow. I’m sorry, Master of the Universe, but if he doesn’t change his mind by the 17th of the month, I am going to butcher myself like an animal and let the Powers of Darkness win. And I want it to be really bloody so my family will never know for sure if it was murder or suicide. I’m giving you until the 17th. Glad you understand my terms. Glad we had this little talk.
I turned and walked back to the grassy hill where we usually sit. I remember the last time we were here. We sat on the ski bunny slope, lying in the deep grass, while he smoked a joint and showed me his newest drawings. They were all comicbooks, of course, but with a plot or two. He was obsessed with Franz Kafka and made me read a hundred pages of the Kafka comicbook he had drawn. I didn’t understand it and I didn’t think it was funny. Who was Franz Kafka anyway? But I didn’t “fake an orgasm” for him. He could tell I wasn’t interested. I absentmindedly pulled blades of grass while I lay on my stomach in the park. “Frail man, his days are like grass; like a sprout of the field, he sprouts. The wind goes over it and it is gone, and its’ place sees it no more.”
He talked on and on about his plans for the future and his projects. He was always thinking ahead, Jeff. Such great and awesome things he would accomplish one day. I just knew it. God, a woman never had so much faith in a man as I had in Jeff. I hope he doesn’t get derailed by my suicide. What am I saying? I let him put his fingerprints on the knife! Woman, don’t falter now. I can just see him at my funeral, wearing his best black suit with the double-breasted jacket. Damn, he looks good in that suit. But, wait… here comes some hussie in a red dress. Who wears a red dress to a funeral? You, bitch. “You’re so pretty.”, he says.
“I am? Nobody ever says that to me.”
“I’ll say it again. You’re so pretty.”
“I WILL NOT VEER FROM THE PLAN!”, I yell at the thin air. All the squirrels scatter. Good. Run, stupid squirrels, run.
The 17th arrived. At nightfall, I rode the bus to the park and walked into the darkness. At the hilltop, I took the blade in its sheath in my left hand, took the folds of my long skirt in my right hand, and started to work my way down the incline. I stepped gingerly. The ground was damp and slippery. There was a thick carpet of leaves but underneath, it was mud. I slid and went down on my right knee. My skirt got a small tear in it and a stripe of mud. “That’s good for effect.”, I thought. I stood up and continued down the slope. At the bottom, I took several deep breaths to steel myself. I looked around. I was totally alone. I was totally alone. The wood was dark and quiet. The leaves crunched under my feet. My breath quickened from the fear of being discovered or worse, interrupted. I knelt on the bed of leaves and the water soaked through the light fabric of my skirt. My knees were wet, but it wasn’t cold. I placed the sheathed knife before me and prepared to pray. “I have the right to do this”, I whispered to the wind. “I have the right.” I reached forward and unsheathed the blade. It bounced a reflection from somewhere. It must have been the moon. With my left hand, I pulled back my hair from the right side of my neck, then picked up the blade and laid it on my right collarbone. “I hope I have enough strength in my weaker hand to do this effectively. The adrenaline will have to push it along.” Deeply I sucked in air as I prepared for the pain. I started panting. Mustn’t hyperventilate now. I began drumming on my thigh with my open palm and on my collarblade with the knife hand. When I felt ready, I slashed my carotid artery with one tug. The cut was not deep enough and stung… so… badly! Again? I have to do it again? No fear! I pulled shorter and deeper this time. Yes! What a fantasticly sharp blade. Warm blood ran down my neck. I felt lighter. I felt relief. And I fell to the ground into nothingness.
Jeff was at work when the police came. Two officers in black uniforms, with black boots, black gun belts, and black sunglasses. “My name is Officer Palmer. Are you Jeff Drecker?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Is there a problem, officer?”
“It’s about Miss Ruth. She’s had an accident and we’d like you to come with us.”
“An accident? Is she okay? Where is she?”
“She’s at Baycrest Medical Centre. You should come with us now.”
So the Toronto District Attorney charged Jeff with my murder because his prints were on the murder weapon and as the mayor said, “No woman could endure the pain of slitting her own throat”. The city was outraged by such a horrendous Crime of Passion. “How could he?!”, they asked in hushed voices. “And her dead body discovered in the woods.”
“Such a pretty thing, she was.”
“I hear they got Natalie Portman to play her in the movie.”
“Oh, I love that Natalie Portman. She’s such a good girl. No scandals in the newspaper about her, eh.”
Poor Jeff. Poor Jeff got seven years in maximum security prison. And the lesson of the story is… A woman scorned will have her revenge even if it means her own death.
“Suicide Fiction: Beauty and the Beast.” is copyright © 2015 by Poorkitteh. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
There is an interesting backstory to this fiction. While it may seem that this woman who clearly becomes psychotic is me, I assure you she is not me! She is only based on me. As in, it’s fiction.
A true part is that I had left my home in Israel and traveled alone to a foreign country to be with the narcissist because he said he was dying. (You can read about that here.) http://www.poorkitteh.com/2015/02/15/narcissist-will-fake-his-own-death/
Within weeks, he had discarded me and was phoning the Toronto Police nearly every day in an effort to get me deported. (You can read about that here.) http://www.poorkitteh.com/2014/05/28/list-of-the-worst-things-narcissist-did-to-hurt-me/
Meanwhile, I was waiting for my work visa to be completed. I had nowhere to go and nothing I needed to do during the day, so I used to walk around Toronto. Before the snows hit, I often walked from Vaughan to the West Don River and then along the banks to Earl Bales Park. That’s over 6 km. One day, I made the walk, sat down, and wrote this whole story just as it is.
During that month, the narcissist and I were texting and emailing daily in an emotional, rocky, volatile drama of pulling me closer and pushing me away. As I grew more hopeless, I started thinking about ways I could end my pain. I thought that maybe if I wrote about suicide that I would get it out of my system, so I indulged the fantasy to the extreme and came up with this creepy story about a woman who loses her mind and crosses the line into insanity. I was really proud of this piece. I hoped to read it at an open mic night for Halloween-themed ghost stories and haunted tales, but the event was G-rated for kids. I still hope I get to read this during a future Fall.
The narcissistic “spin” is that only one week later, David was in love with me again. (You can read about that here.) http://www.poorkitteh.com/2014/04/08/bircat-hamazon/ and http://www.poorkitteh.com/2014/04/13/bircat-hamazon-part-two/
Back and forth, lovers then enemies then lovers again… there was no stability with the narcissist because there was no actual emotional connection to me. It was all an act. I hope you enjoyed my creepy fiction.
“Suicide Fiction: Beauty and the Beast.” is copyright © 2015 by Poorkitteh. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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