Canadian Sniper

It’s that moment when the body hits the floor and you have no idea where it landed.

It’s dark and cold and every ounce of energy is now concentrated on finding that thing and just getting rid of it.

Before the phone rings.

Before the cat eats it.

Before anything.

I search madly among the ruins of my bed sheets, clothes strewn everywhere, shoes thrown against the wall in a panic.

A tell-tale brown streak slowly slides down the off-white paint, pooling where the wall meets the floor.

Cautiously, all senses on high alert, I look under the bed. I looked down at the moment of impact and did not see where it fell.

There is dust under the bed. A lot of it. So much it seems that it obscures my vision of anything else. I feel itchy, and violated and stalked. I feel dirty. I feel watched. I am temporarily distracted while counting dust bunnies, carefully examining each one, looking for the one that is different. More alive. More dead. More ominous.

I have no idea how much time has passed.

I summon the cat to help me search. He has no idea what is going on, it is a new game, one with a sense of urgency. He is enthralled for about five minutes. He knows there is no treat to follow. He feels tricked. He leaves.

I am once again left to my own devices. I hate being alone at a time like this. So much has already gone wrong. Too much time has passed and I wonder if I missed my chance. I know I won’t get another one and I know I won’t relax until my mission is complete.

This moment. The longest moment of my life.

I had no idea when I got up this morning that I would be caught up in the drama of disposing of a body. One that I had killed.

All those years of bowling sharpened my aim. I hit my target on the first try. And the second. And the third. Like a sniper. The problem was finding the remains.

Finally, a smallish speck caught my eye. Dust-covered, the colour of pale tea, it lay crumpled among the dust bunnies. There it was. Curled up and quite dead.

I grabbed a broom and brought it closer. It was still wet from being blasted to smithereens by the Lysol spray.

Suddenly, I felt ashamed in that final moment. Angry over being in a position that left me no choice. I didn’t sign up for this. I am not a trained sniper and I hate taking lives.

As I quietly went about the disposition, I hoped his friends we’re not going to be looking for me anytime soon…

By Mary L.

Talk to me!

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s