Wednesday, September 17

Midnight had come and gone, but the nausea had not.

He had an hour before he needed to leave. Today would be a long day. He had done these double-duty days before, hadn’t minded, but not like today. Last night sleep never came, reminiscent of his childhood, when he waited for his mother to come in at midnight, administering her homemade concoction of medicine only to leave him with even more pain. Today he’d be forced to hide that same nausea, that relentless nausea that had lived with him day after day during his childhood. But he had done it before. He had survived. He could do it again.

If only he had taken care of her that first night like he had planned. He had even brought the chain saw with him, expecting to cut her up piece by piece, hoping to somehow find the prize. Instead, he had decided at the last minute to wait.

It was the wrong decision, a stupid, stupid, stupid decision.

He thought he could wait, thinking she’d tell him where her precious hormone deficiency resided, saving him a mess, because he hated messes. Hated, hated, hated them. And the chain saw was the messiest of all to clean. But here he was with an even bigger mess on his hands. Not only did he need to worry about those who wanted to destroy him, all those digging in the quarry, but now he needed to figure out a way to dispose of her body when he was finished.

He couldn’t think about it now. He needed to get ready for the day. He needed to stop worrying or his stomach would make it impossible to get through this day.

He scraped the mayonnaise from inside the jar, the clank-clank of the knife against glass only frustrating him, grating on his nerves, which already felt rubbed raw. How could he function? How could he do this?

No, no, no. Of course he could. He could do this.

He spread the condiment on the soft white bread, slow strokes so he wouldn’t tear it, taking time to reach each corner but deliberately not touching the crust. He unwrapped two slices of American cheese, laying them on the bread, making sure neither slice hung over the edge, again, not touching the crust, but letting them overlap in the center. Then carefully he cut the top slice of cheese exactly at the overlap and set aside the unneeded section.

He reached up into the cabinet, back behind the Pepto-Bismol and cough syrup, grabbing hold of the brown bottle his mother had kept hidden for years. He opened it, carefully sprinkled just a few of the crystals on the cheese, then replaced the bottle to its secret place.

He topped the sandwich with the other slice of bread, but not before slathering it with just the right amount of mayonnaise. Last, but most important, he cut away the crust, then cut it in two, diagonally, not down the middle. There. Perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

He wrapped his creation in white wax paper, putting it on a tray that already included a can of Coke, an individual-size bag of potato chips and a Snickers candy bar. It was the exact lunch his mother had packed for him every day of his childhood, or at least, every day for as long back as he could remember. The perfect lunch. Rarely a substitution. It always made him feel better, but this lunch wasn’t for him. It was for his guest.

He smiled at that—his guest. He had never had a guest before. Especially not an overnight one. His mother would never allow it. And despite this being an accident, a mistake, a mess…Well, perhaps, yes, just perhaps, he liked the idea of having a guest. He liked having someone he could control for a change. At least for a little while. At least until he decided how to dispose of the parts he didn’t need.

That was when he remembered. He might be able to use one of the freezers. Yes, maybe there was room for her in the freezer.