Done is Done by Tony Valiulis

 

Embers from a dying fire flicker in the stone hearth. After dropping my bag next to the leather chair, I pour myself a drink—Balvenie 40-year-old single malt. A costly extravagance at about $8,000 a bottle, the scotch has sat on the shelf for years waiting for the right moment.

I sip the whisky, savoring the aroma of ripe fruit, figs, and almond. Its soothing warmth calms me as I allow my mind to relive today’s events. Nasty but necessary. And not without its pleasures.

The window facing the yard snaps open. A piercing sound—an injured animal or perhaps a siren—fills the room.

You shouldn’t have killed me.

Outside, darkness shadows the ground in shades of black and gray. A chilling breeze washes my face, bringing with it the deceptive smell of autumn—rotting vegetation packaged in perfumed potpourri.

The fire sputters.

I was more like you than you knew.

I shudder. A sudden storm erupts. Rain slashes against the walls. I rise to close the window. It doesn’t budge. Sharp pellets of hail scrape my face, drawing blood.

From the fire, a slight, pungent smell of rancid meat teases my nose. I can’t help but smile. Done is done.

Not yet, my love.

Cara’s image flashes in my mind: bright red hair, dew-fresh green eyes, a smile that melts my heart.

A face covered in blood.

I try to shake the picture out of my mind. She had learned too much by the end. She had to die. Alive, she would have been a threat.

And dead?

I throw small pieces of wood on the smoldering ashes. From my bag, I take out Cara’s blood-soaked head and place it in the middle of the fire. Her hair bursts into flame, her skin crackles, and—

Her eyes pop open. Blackened lips snake into a smile. A fiery hiss escapes from her mouth, setting my clothes ablaze. I scream.

Now done is done.