CROSS
STITCH
©
2002-Destiny West
I
consider myself an easy-going type of guy. I don’t
live in any fantasy world, I know what I am capable of and
I know my position in life. In other words I don’t
pretend to be somebody that I am not.
It takes a lot to rattle me. I’m not prone to loosing
my temper or getting into fights, actually I don’t
see the point of it, nor holding a grudge.
When we “hold a grudge” it’s only ourselves
that suffer- the targeted person is usually unaware of how
we feel and it’s us whose insides fester away for
nothing- so really we are just harming ourselves. Why bother?
Life’s too short. You get on with things but you never
forget. I am a great believer in karma and many a time I
have seen that “what goes around comes around.”
When I married Debbie, I knew what she was like: nobody
forced me to say, “I do.” Neither was her Father
wasn’t standing beside me at the altar with a gun
pointed at my head.
No, I entered that marriage with my eyes wide open and well
aware of her faults and idiosyncrasies, however when you
do get married things change.
No, I apologise – things don’t change; we do.
Maybe it’s that thought you get on the morning after
you get married. It’s the knowledge that you have
committed yourself to spending the rest of your life with
that person lying beside you.
To some people this is heaven, to others – albeit
not at that precise moment, but later on; maybe a few years
down the track – it’s a horrible sensation.
Oh, I know I could have got out. Divorce is an easy option;
but I genuinely loved Debbie.
I’m a patient guy, and you grow to accept a person’s
faults, especially when you love them.
But I am only human, and there were days when every action
she took and every noise she made was amplified tenfold:
grating on my soul like fingernails racking down a blackboard.
You’re sitting there, you can hear them eating: every
chew and swallow. Likewise, when they touch or stand beside
you, your body retracts into itself and your skin crawls
in revulsion.
That’s normal. We all have days like that.
It’s when those days become more regular that it becomes
a problem. You long for the times that you are on your own.
Solitude is a state you long for, and you count the minutes
and the hours until they go out of the door, and you dread
the sound of their car in the driveway and the confirmation
that they are home again.
So, you are married to this person, and like me; you genuinely
love them. That is fine and all good; you can accept it
and carry on – as surely the good times outweigh the
bad. However when you marry someone, you are not only taking
on that person, no- you are also taking on their whole fucking
family. That is unless you are lucky enough to marry an
orphan.
In-laws you can deal with. They are a pain in the arse,
but they are a fact of life. It’s the partner’s
siblings that cause the problems.
I mean, not only are you married to a person that at times
grates on your nerves, you are also surrounded by siblings-
all from the same gene pool. The gene pools isolate the
whinging and the faults and spread them to the siblings
like some contagious disease.
But I don’t think I have to explain anymore to you
about that – after all, you’re a living example
of Mother Nature’s cruellest pranks.
But marrying a person you have to take on their family:
tolerating their existence and accepting it, like we accept
the existence of rats and cockroaches.
Or do you?
I mean, most of us don’t tolerate cockroaches or rats
in our home, do we? No, we call in the exterminator or we
do it ourselves. So why do we let the family vermin into
our homes to destroy our lives and irritate us?
Because we love our partners – Right?
Did you ever see that movie ‘Falling Down?’
The one with Michael Douglas playing an everyday blue -collar
worker who finally snaps? It’s not anything monumental
that makes him crack; no, it is just the combination of
little things that finally sends him over the edge.
It’s that old saying “It was the straw that
broke the camels’ back.” Not a pile of straw,
just one fucking strand of it.
I
woke up this morning feeling that way.
You know, Debbie and I went camping just a few weeks ago.
She used to love camping. Initially, I thought we were both
the outdoor types. “In touch with Mother Nature”,
and all that crap.
There we were, in beautiful surroundings- not unlike where
we are right now- and all she wanted to do was sit down
and read a fucking book.
Books are great. Don’t get me wrong – I love
reading myself; but you can read at home…
As I said, I’m an easygoing guy and I wouldn’t
have minded if she wanted to read now and then; but not
the whole goddamn trip.
When I finally did convince her to come hiking with me,
all she could do was complain.
“It’s too hot.”
“My feet hurt.”
“How much further?” etc. etc.
What
was the point? She ruined the whole weekend.
Then last week I was confronted by: “My sisters have
invited us up to the cabin for the weekend so we can do
our arts and crafts.’”
“Have a good time.” I say, my insides jumping
for glee – a whole weekend alone!
“No,
I said us. They have invited both of us up to the cabin
for the weekend.”
Count
to ten. – One, two, three, four.
Five.
Six.
Seven, eight, nine….ten
“I
don’t do crafts.” She knows that – arts
and crafts are her thing. Or it should be; I mean, she goes
every Friday night to do them.
“You would enjoy it too. You could relax; you’ve
always enjoyed it up there before.”
Pause and take a deep breath.
“Yes I have darling, but there were other guys up
there, and I wasn’t stuck in a fucking cabin in the
middle of nowhere watching you and your pain-in–the-arse
sisters doing crafts”
Water-works.
What is it with you girls and tears? Is it a built-in device
to purposely make a guy feel guilty?
Whatever the reason, it worked; and before the first blow
of her nose, my weekend plans were signed, sealed and delivered
without my true consent.
I mean, I was still confused as to why my attendance was
required at this miserable gathering; plus at odds to understand
why a weekend at the cabin was needed to do arts and crafts.
Why go away?
“Inspiration” Debbie had said.
The only thing it inspired me to do was to make sure I brought
enough beer with me to numb the pain of my impending prison
sentence.
I thought I would only “get in the way” of the
girlie weekend. You girls don’t want blokes hanging
around when you are talking about all that emotional garbage
you chat about, do you?
Certainly not – but you do want someone to fetch and
carry for you.
I’m not stupid. Three girls all alone in the woods
– the idea isn’t at all comforting for you is
it?
No, you need a guy with you: The back up protection. The
hunter-gatherer. Someone to chop the wood and keep the fires
burning while you stitch and cut and paste or whatever you
do in your “arts and crafts.”
Oh, you may deny it – but I know.
So
we got up here Friday evening.
“My sisters won’t be coming up till Saturday
morning, so we have Friday night all to ourselves.”
That look in her eye – the dangling of the carrot
in front of the donkey.
Funny that, somehow though, the carrot never makes it to
the donkey’s mouth…
“Oh I’m too tired after that long drive.”
Rolls over and is fast asleep.
It’s
9pm and I’m lying there wide-awake looking at the
ceiling, and there isn’t even a television to watch.
Morning came soon enough though. It always does when you’re
not looking forward to something…
“They’re
here!” Squeals of glee from Debbie. “Go and
fetch all their stuff for them.”
How much is it necessary for a woman to pack for a weekend
away?
Two suitcases, an ice cooler and three large boxes of “arts
and crafts stuff” later and the true nightmare begins:
It pours with rain.
I’m not talking about ‘drizzle’ or a light
summer shower; no, this is torrential- just like the stuff
Noah experienced.
There is no escape: I’m trapped like a caged animal
in a lair of ferocious predators.
Bitches
did it on purpose – they bought the rain with them.
I
look through our boxes.
“Where’s my book, darling?”
Debbie looks up from her patchwork sheepishly.
“Erm, I forgot to pack it.”
Count to ten – One, two, three… Fuck it. There
are not enough numbers to get me through this one.
“You forgot to pack it?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.’
Head back down dismissing the subject she returns to her
patchwork.
‘Okay,
and so what am I meant to do?’ I ask, voice raised
slightly.
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.
“I don’t know. You’re a big boy entertain
yourself.”
A giggle from the sisters.
“Let’s see. I’m in a cabin in the middle
of nowhere, it’s fucking pouring with rain outside,
there is no television and you forgot to pack my book. The
one little thing I asked you to grab for me. Hey, but you
could remember all this shit…” I say, pushing
over one of the boxes, spilling fabric pieces onto the wooden
floor.“…And then you tell me to entertain myself!
Okay, tell me, how the fuck do you expect me to do that?”
Water-works.
Scowling looks from the other two bitches.
“Bastard.”
and “Look what you have done.” and “Why
do you have to be such a pig?” All in just a single
look.
“You…You could always do crafts with us.’
Debbie sobs. “You never know… you might even
enjoy it.”
I try to calm myself.
So there I am, in the middle of the woods and told to join
in the arts and crafts activities.
“You could always trying wood carving.” One
of them suggests, taking a craft knife and pushing it across
the table towards me.
What other options did I have? Reluctantly I take the knife
and force myself to hunt through the wood box for a piece
that I could perhaps ‘carve into something’.
I suppose the idea was better than staring at four walls.
So I resign myself, and with wood in one hand and knife
in the other, I go to a seat by the window where I stare
out of the window; watching the rain fall and hoping that
it will cease soon.
I’m pretty good at carving wood – well so I
discovered and I guess I have you to thank for that.
The morning passed slowly. Lunchtime came ,and with it the
salvation of the beer that -in the eyes of my fellow housemates-
was frowned upon, but grudgingly accepted.
I open the ice box:
Food.
I open the second ice box: Soft drinks and milk.
There was no third ice box. Where is my beer?
‘”Debbie”
where is my beer?’
“It ‘s in the ice box.”
“No. I just looked in the ice box. It’s not
in there.”
‘Well maybe it’s in the car.’
“Debbie, did you remember to pack my beer?”
I say, visualising the truth of my beer still sitting on
the kitchen counter at home.
‘I don’t know.’”
“Debbie…”
An
awkward silence fills the room.
‘Well
if it’s not in the ice boxes then no, I must have
forgot.”
Grab
the car keys and walk out into the rain.
‘Where
are you going, James?” Debbie cries out.
The rain makes her voice distant as it drenches me.
‘”Home!” I yell back, getting inside the
car.
Deep breathing...One, two, three….
Turn key in ignition and start to drive.
Going nowhere – bogged!
Squeal tires in desperation – make matters worse.
“FUCK.”
Slam fists against steering wheel.
Sit in car for ten minutes then reluctantly get out and
return inside.
Nobody actually makes eye contact - but I can see the self
-satisfied smug looks on their faces.
Sit down by the window and pick up my knife and the piece
of wood again.
A few moments silence.
“I’m sure you can live without beer for one
weekend.’” She says finally.
Yes, fucking finally – as I stand and walk over to
her my hand freely slashing the knife across her pale throat.
A gargled scream as blood sprays over the patchwork quilt
she has been labouring over the last few months.
Her hand reaches for the gaping wound in her throat.
The sisters start screaming too.
I move before them and bolt the cabin door shut.
With two swings of my wood carving they are laid out unconscious
on the floor.
I look at Debbie, her body stooped over the table, blood
flowing from her slashed throat.
Her body spasms and jerks involuntarily. Christ, if only
she had moved that much when we were having sex.
I pull the chair out from under her and catch her limp body
before she can fall to the floor.
Pushing her dress up above her hips I rip off her grandma
underwear and bend her over the table, her head face down
on the bloodied quilt.
With my other hand I push my shorts down and guide my cock
to her backside and forcefully thrust my rigid cock deep
inside of her cunt.
More body spasms. But these fade as I pound my cock in and
out, in and out; cumming deep inside of her – life
in death.
I let her limp body fall to the floor.
“Alone
at last.” I say, threading another length of cotton
through the eye of the darning needle, and flashing a look
at them from the corner of mine. “No fucking book,
no fucking beer and having to put up with you two bitches.
Still, we have our arts and crafts, don’t we? Oh,
yes, and of course we’ve got time on our hands too”
Their
voices gradually muffle as they plead against the coarse
thread stitches that bind their lips together.
“I’m quite good at sewing, I think Debbie would
be proud of me.” I say, looking back at her corpse;
now a macabre patchwork of barely identifiable parts. –I
had hacked her to pieces and then stitched her back together
again in random order.
I move my hand towards the first sister’s eye. She
tries to pull away from me; her body pathetically trying
to rip away from the stitching that binds her to her sister’s
bloodied right side.
Holding her head steady with one hand I push the darning
needle through the soft flesh just below the eye.
The stifled screams remain trapped in her throat.
I pull the needle through. The thread follows. I move on
to her skin above her eyelid.
I hum softly to myself while stitching.
When finally finished, I sit back in my chair to admire
my handiwork.
“Y’know, I can finally see why you enjoy arts
and crafts so much.” I say, looking down at my cock
where it throbs at my thigh. “It really is rewarding
and I have always wanted to fuck conjoined twins. Are you
ready, ladies?”
