CuiousPages - fiction and nonfiction
CuriousPages - fiction and nonfiction
Throughout surgery on Monday, he recalled that new sense of legitimacy. He wished his patients away, wished his day to be over, and then, at the end, hurried, on foot, back towards the object of his illicit desire. And as he passed familiar faces in the street, he wondered if these were some of the people he was slowly poisoning, or were they perhaps relatives of his victims. All around him, the people seemed like ghosts in waiting, beclouded with the shadow of death, whose hand he had ushered their way.  And as he saw them, his guilt and turmoil resurfaced; those poor souls had appeared before him, wanting relief from pain or anguish and he betrayed their trust. He could have stopped sooner, when he began to suspect he was doing something wrong, but he was too weak to stop; he just continued doing the same, and now there was nothing left for him, no other option. He increased his pace towards the bridge.
As he walked onto the bridge on Monday evening, he stood by the wall surrounding the tower and watched the gorge below for a moment, as if transfixed, when he heard a voice from beside him:
“It’s a long way down.”
He looked up and saw a woman. She was vaguely familiar and seemed concerned, worried, as though she were sitting before him in his surgery, about to unburden herself.
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
“You look like a kind person,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Can I tell you something?”
To him, her face seemed to be wearing a particular shade of guilt and worry which reminded him of that look that was brought into his surgery more and more frequently over recent months by the steady stream of his victims who returned to confess they had stopped their “medication” and now felt so much better. They would sit there and apologize for deceiving him; they felt so guilty about it, him being such a kind doctor; and they could not live with themselves until they came clean; yes, looking at the guilt and worry in her face, he felt like waving her away and saying he already knew; there was no need to say anything.
In the kitchen of 17 Misconception Boulevard, Sally Softly and the half‑dressed chief constable were standing beside the coffee machine. Above the gurgling machine, the muffled exchanges of the three visitors in the living room could be heard.
Sally was deep in thought about this man on the sofa whom she had deduced (by “scientifically examining the facts”) was Peter’s half‑brother. She then felt Roland Wise’s hand scurrying over the back of her leg. She recalled that look on his face as he got up off her in the living room—got quickly up off her and then sighed with relief. She pictured him with Peter on the golf course, both laughing about her. She shuddered again at the thought of their trickery, then grabbed Roland’s shoulder, said, “Right—we’ll start in the garden,” and pushed him towards the back door.
He seemed reluctant, “The garden—”
She tugged at his arm while warning him, with a playful smile, “We’ll have to be quick mind—”
His legs started to tremble, “But—”
She looked at his reluctant expression which appeared to be expressing disgust at the idea of having sex with her. And something about his expression incensed her even more than usual (—Right. I’ll get them both back for this. Wants to have a laugh about me, does he? Well, let’s see him laugh about this—). And she tugged more firmly on his arm, saying, irritably, “Come on,” and slipping his underpants down over his buttocks with her other hand as she tugged him towards the door.
Roland—holding onto his underpants—appeared to be somewhat flustered, “But, but—”
But she was not having any of this; she opened the door, snapped, “Get out there,” pushed him out through it (Roland still dressed in only his shirt, underwear, shoes and his chief constable’s hat—for he was still apparently unaware he was wearing it) and as they stepped out through the door, Sally’s smirk triumphantly returned at the thought of Roland’s marathon performance around the garden.

 

Fiction and nonfiction by Fletcher Kovich and also classic writers.

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