Ritualistic Human Sacrifice Page 4

  Jim and I made our way back through the house. When we passed the room with the bag he said he’d insist a cleaning crew take care of it. I thought about pressing him again about what was in the bag but decided to wait.

  Jim made sure all the lights were off and checked the lock on the back door. He locked the front door and put the key in a box attached to the knob.

  Once we were to our vehicles he produced a folder full of papers. He went over everything in layman’s terms. I knew I should read through them but I also knew what I was getting myself into. The house was as-is. Once I signed I couldn’t bitch about anything wrong with the house because the bank that owned it wasn’t obligated to fix anything. Whatever problems the structure had would be my responsibility.

  I was about to sign the papers on the hood of Jim’s vehicle but stopped with the pen a few centimeters from the dotted line.

  I scrutinized Jim’s expectant face and said, “What’s in the bag?”

  My question caught him off guard.

  “Um, well,” he sputtered. “A cleaning crew will take care of it. It’ll be gone by the time you move in.”

  I sighed and set the pen down. “Isn’t there a disclosure law? I’m not gonna sign anything until I know what’s in the bag.”

  Jim avoided eye contact and said, “A dog.”

  His eyes dropped to his shoes. He nudged something on the ground with his toe and shoved his hands into his pockets. He looked like an embarrassed child caught doing something he knew was wrong. I found his actions amusing and expected him to throw himself on the ground in a tantrum at any moment.

  I said, “A dog?”

  He kept his eyes cast downward. “I think the previous tenant might’ve been disgruntled about losing their house. Sometimes homeowners will get the ‘if I can’t have it no one can attitude’ and decide to trash the house before leaving. Some even destroy the furnace and water heaters and go as far as removing all the plumbing and electrical wiring to be spiteful.” He finally made eye contact with me. “But the dog . . .” He shook his head. “It hadn’t died naturally. I’m sorry, Mr. Graves, but it’s a bit upsetting. Never in all the years have I encountered anything like it.”

  “Holy shit. Someone killed it? In the house?”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about. I assure you the locks have been replaced. I can even request for them to be replaced again before you move in.”

  I waved my hand dismissively. “I planned on installing a security system anyway.”

  He nodded. “You can never be too safe.”

  The mood turned sour and I wanted to put the thought of the dog out of my head. I also wanted Jim to forget about it. Having to relive the images made him uneasy and understandably so. I’m sure disposing of mutilated dog carcasses wasn’t a regular requirement for a realtor. I picked up the pen with a flourish and signed the papers. Jim’s stance eased when I made out a check for the earnest money. I handed him my business card which had my cell phone number, email, and office extension.

  I said, “I’d prefer email when possible. You can call me at the office during business hours and leave a message if I’m out. Call my cell only if it’s absolutely important. I want to keep this quiet.”

  He read my card and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He said, “An architect.” He slipped the card into the folder along with the rest of my paperwork. “I guess that explains your fascination with the house.”

  I shook his sweaty hand again and we said our goodbyes. Once I was in my car I used copious amounts of hand sanitizer. I cleaned my hands three times but still felt filthy and swore I could still smell the stench of the dead dog. I checked my shoes to make sure I hadn’t stepped in something rotten from the house before I started the car. I drove home with the windows down and grinned like an idiot when I fantasized about Eve’s reaction to the house.

  4

  I kicked off my shoes in the hallway outside my apartment and picked them up. A strong odor of garlic and onions assaulted me once I was inside. Sounds of food preparation emanated from the kitchen.

  “You’re home,” Eve called.

  I sighed and dropped my keys on a table by the door. I was never sure why her greeting grated on my nerves. Because it wasn’t really a greeting. It was a declaration of the obvious. I was home. I was aware I was home. She was aware I was home. She did not have to announce it to the world. Or better yet, announce it to the two people who already knew the information she was conveying.

  I bit back my aggravation and replied, “Yeah.”

  I carried my shoes toward the hallway. Our washer and dryer were situated in a nook across from the bathroom. I opened the washer door, made sure the contents were not things needing transferred to the dryer, and threw my shoes in. Eve appeared in the kitchen doorway. I proceeded to strip off my clothes and add them to the load of laundry.

  “I’m making Indian,” she said. “I’ve been craving it all day. I can’t believe how quick the pregnancy cravings hit.” She sounded excited and vibrated with hyperactivity. “I’ve got my first doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

  She watched me expectantly. I continued to remove my clothes. Her eyes flicked to my cock when I removed my underwear and she smiled. Her stance became more limber and she leaned against the doorframe.

  Over the years I’d grown accustomed to Eve’s subtle hints and mannerisms. It took me half a second to register her change in mood. She wanted sex. She didn’t want sex at the moment. Having sex right then and there, hot and passionate, stinking and filthy, would be impulsive. Eve hadn’t done anything sexually unpredictable in years. Even if she would’ve made a move I would’ve refused her. I was dirty. And over the last few years I wasn’t in the mood when I felt dirty. It had been several years since the thought of fucking, or having an orgasm, was more enticing than being clean.

  I fought the sudden urge to scream ‘I don’t want to fuck you’. And I sure as hell didn’t want to fuck her later that night either. I wanted to tell her she was about to consume a massive amount of garlic and onions and those foods made her bloat up like a Dr. Seuss character and made her vagina smell weird and gross, not to mention she was a manipulative cunt and had ruined my life by getting knocked up on purpose, and fucking her for sexual pleasure was the furthest thing from my mind. I would hate fuck her with my fist at the drop of a hat if she wanted but that was about the extent of my affection at the moment.

  Instead I said, “It smells like you’re trying to kill a vampire.”

  Her smile wavered. She stood up straight and crossed her arms. She knew the remark was a passive aggressive one referring to the effects the food would have on her body. I told her early in our relationship her pussy could kill a vampire after she ate garlic. I knew it made her extremely self-conscious. But the gloves were off now. I agreed to pretend this marriage wasn’t in shambles around family and friends. I never agreed to not be a prick when no one was around.

  I turned and walked into the bathroom. “On site all day. Gonna take a shower.” I shut the door.

  “It’ll be done in ten minutes,” she called.

  I took my time in the shower and fought the urge to masturbate when I soaped my penis. It had been a week and a half since Eve had acted interested in fucking. And I’d spent the last three nights researching houses and sending emails to realtors during my nightly alone time. I hadn’t had time to jerk off. I was too busy constructing my revenge.

  I didn’t want to fuck Eve because I was mad at her. And if I fucked her I would have to take another shower to wash off the smelly vaginal juice and the sticky lube she preferred. If I came now I knew I wouldn’t be able to get an erection later when Eve decided it was time to fuck. I smiled to myself. Not only would she not get what she wanted, but she always beat herself up whenever she wasn’t able to arouse me. As if my lack of a sexual response was her fault and my attraction to her was slipping and there was nothing she could do to rectify it because no matter how hard she tried to get me hard my body
wouldn’t cooperate. My inability to get hard was never because of her appearance. It was mainly because I was getting old and tired and sometimes it was a chore to get aroused. But other times it was because the thought of getting dirty was unappealing and a mood killer.

  I wanted my dick to be flaccid and inattentive to her. I started to masturbate, using water as lubricant. A sudden surge of anger flooded me as my cock grew hard. This was what she’d reduced me to—jerking off in the shower to spite her. I was doing this because she was selfish and I hated her for degrading me to this level of pettiness.

  I grabbed Eve’s conditioner, squeezed some onto the palm of my hand, and masturbated in an anger-induced frenzy. I came quickly. The orgasm was intense and I choked back a cry of pleasure. My stomach and leg muscles constricted and I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. I continued to stroke slowly as the semen ran down the shower wall. I cupped my hand and threw some water on it to rinse it down the drain. I thought, That’s exactly where the kid should be. I rewashed my dick and hands and exited the shower.

  Muffled clacking and clanging permeated the bathroom walls as Eve set the table. I dried myself and retreated to our bedroom to dress. I pulled on a pair of black jeans and a gray cotton shirt and walked toward the kitchen.

  Eve had begun without me and was halfway through her meal. A huge plate of steaming malai kofta sat on the table at my seat. The portion of food was almost double the amount I usually ate. A whole piece of naan slathered with olive oil and large chunks of garlic was situated on a plate to the side. I noticed Eve using a whole piece for herself. We normally shared one.

  I sat and draped one of Eve’s hideous floral patterned napkins across my lap. She was subtly hunched over her plate. She greedily ate her serving which, like mine, was double the normal portion. I lifted my naan and ripped it in half. I proceeded to scrape half of my food onto the plate with the naan. She stopped mid chew and stared at me dumbfounded. A dab of sauce clung to the corner of her mouth. I sat my plate in front of me gingerly and took a bite. She swallowed her food.

  She said, “Something wrong?”

  I shook my head and chewed. She eyed the third plate I’d created sitting between us and waited for me to explain. I couldn’t take my eyes off the spot of sauce in the corner of her mouth.

  “You gave me too much food,” I said. “I’m not going to be one of those guys who gains thirty pounds because their wife got pregnant. Just because you want stretch marks doesn’t mean I want my own set to match. I respect my body and like it the way it is.”

  She appeared crestfallen and peered down at her plate. She’d consumed three quarters of her meal. She sat her fork down and finally wiped the spot of sauce from her mouth with her napkin. My mouth contorted into a smirk. I continued to eat my supper.

  With a neutral expression she said, “I have my first appointment tomorrow.”

  I responded by not replying and continued to eat as if she hadn’t spoken. I wanted to tell her she’d already informed me of the appointment and I didn’t give a shit the first time she told me and still didn’t give a shit. But I hated repeating myself and chose not to. She fingered her napkin nervously. I refused to show her any emotion beyond stoicism. I kept my expression apathetic and chewed my food. I had the absurd thought I must appear as emotionless as a cow chewing on grass.

  “I want you to take me,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She gave me an incredulous look and tilted her head. “Because you’re the father?”

  I shrugged. “Is it a requirement? Do they have to do a blood test or something?”

  She laughed humorlessly. “We know who the father is.”

  “Do we?”

  She stood, picked up her plate, and dumped the remaining food into the garbage disposal. She flipped the switch and rinsed her plate. I was getting tired of the temper tantrums involving running the garbage disposal. Once she was done she sat at the table again.

  She clasped her hands together and placed them on the table. She composed herself and said, “Please go with me. Are you really going to make me take the bus?”

  I never understood why she relied on public transit and other people to get around. It was annoying when she asked me to drive her considering I never wanted to do whatever it was she planned.

  “Why do you want someone to go with you who doesn’t want to be there, isn’t happy about the situation, and will make your experience with all of it miserable?”

  She thought about what I’d said with great deliberation but didn’t respond.

  I added, “I never said I’d go to the appointments or be your chauffeur. I never said I would play happy in front of a doctor. I’ll pretend to be happy in front of friends and family. That’s it.”

  “I don’t want you to fake being happy. It’s not part of the deal. I don’t want you to be miserable.”

  “Too late.”

  She left the table. I finished my supper. The end of my meal was serenaded by the sounds of Eve’s sobs emanating from our bedroom.

  I cleaned my plate and headed to the study. Eve’s crying quieted as I passed our bedroom. I imagined her lying on the bed and hearing my footsteps and waiting expectantly for me to enter and apologize for being an asshole and agree to go to her appointment and suddenly having a change of heart and becoming the happiest father in the world. Eve stifled another sob when I reached the study and I shut the door to block her out.

  I turned on the computer and checked my email. I found a message from Jim Hagathorne and got excited. I knew I had to calm myself before opening it. My life had quickly become a shit heap over the past week. I had to prepare myself for disappointment. There was a possibility someone else already signed an agreement or was willing to pay a higher amount. The bank could reject my offer which was fifteen thousand dollars less than their asking price in the hopes I would give them more. I stared at the unopened email and thought, This is a rejection. I clicked on it, shut my eyes, and counted to ten to make sure the message was fully loaded before I read it.

  It was an acceptance. I guffawed and clamped a hand over my mouth. I listened for Eve. It sounded as if she was finished with her crying jag. I waited a couple of beats with my hand over my mouth. I assumed Eve would compose herself and nosily come to check why her husband was laughing. She remained in the bedroom and I sadistically hoped she thought I was laughing at her. I dropped my hand and reread the message.

  The message contained a list of documents he needed scanned and emailed to his office. Luckily most of what he wanted was located in a filing cabinet I kept in the study. Some of the items I was able to retrieve online. There was also an attachment of a PDF I needed to print, sign, scan, and send back. The process kept me busy for the next hour.

  When I was almost done another email arrived from Mr. Crutch. His message stated he’d had a conversation with Sam about my situation. He also wrote he would be in the office tomorrow afternoon. He requested I stop in and not to worry about the meeting. From the content of the email I assumed I was set to work from home. I had a brief moment of panic and thought he could possibly tell me I couldn’t work from home. What would I do with the house if this was the case? It was too far away to commute back and forth. I would have to withdraw the offer. I thought, Maybe it would be better to wait until after the meeting before sending the realtor all the paperwork he needed. It would be less of a waste of time on both fronts if I didn’t end up working from home.

  I ran my hands through my hair, leaned back in the chair, and took a few deep breaths. Fuck it. I could always freelance or start my own business. I had enough money in the bank to cover the cost of the house and the repairs and updates and I would still have a sizable amount to live off for a while. We would need money for utilities and the car payment. I could get a job with a local contractor. I was a little on the old side but physically fit. I reread Mr. Crutch’s message and was positive from the wording he was going to allow me to work from home.

  I let the acc
eptance from the bank and the positive tone of Mr. Crutch’s email nurture what small amount of happiness I still harbored in my heart. I knew this could all crash down somehow or another but I was going to ride the wave of excitement as much as possible until it happened. I responded to Mr. Crutch’s email to confirm I would be there. I put the worries out of my head—especially the ones about not being able to work from home—and gathered the last of the information for the realtor. When I finished sending everything over to Jim I realized I was humming.

  I exited the study and decided to watch an hour or two of television before going to bed. Normally I would read but I was too excited to keep my head in a book. Eve hated my obsession with documentaries but she filled the time I took over the television with grading papers or reviewing lesson plans. She was more apt to watch whatever mainstream nighttime drama the major networks aired. She never said anything if I wanted to watch something during her shows because she recorded everything on the DVR.

  Our bedroom door was shut and the apartment was quiet. I entered the living room and turned the television on. I wondered if Eve was so pissed she’d left. I spotted her filthy shoes by the door. It appeared she’d chosen to go to bed early. Good. Having her in the same room right now would ruin how happy I was about the house approval.

  I tried to focus on the television but my mind wandered to the house and what materials I wanted to use for remodeling. I hadn’t thought about how much what I was doing would piss off Eve. My head was filled with possibilities and how nice it would be to stay in a house you designed and be able to enjoy the art of what you’d chosen for the structure. I decided a celebration was in order.

  We always kept a couple bottles of liquor in the kitchen in case someone stopped by. And sometimes one of us would have a particularly heinous day and would have a drink to take the edge off. Neither one of us were everyday drinkers.

  I made my way to the kitchen and poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass. I sipped some over the sink before proceeding back into the living room. I nursed the drink for a couple hours and watched a documentary about abandoned locations across the world. The alcohol did what it was designed to do. I was relaxed and warm and became engrossed in the haunted appearance of a ghost town in one segment of the documentary. When the show was over I decided to turn in.