Burning Time

25

Troland had just about reached his favorite part, no longer feeling any fatigue, when the girl woke up. She opened her eyes and within an instant she was hysterical. Her hands and feet were tied, but the middle of her body had no restraints. She began straining and bucking. Her eyes were enormous, about to pop right out of her head. She made sounds like no sounds Troland had ever heard. It was like she was having an epileptic fit. Her skinny body went rigid. Her head shook from side to side, and she was screaming from the inside because her mouth was taped.

“Shut up.” It freaked him out.

She didn’t shut up.

“Look, shut up!” he screamed. “I have a gun. See, it’s loaded. I have a knife, too. I’ll cut you up in little pieces.”

The noise didn’t stop.

“You want me to finish quietly, or blow your head off?”

Snot and tears ran down her face. Troland was disgusted. After all his trouble, now she was a mess.

“Okay!” He put the gun down and roughly wiped her face with a towel.

He considered hitting her, knocking her out, but didn’t want to spoil his work.

“You want me to take the tape off?” he said.

She nodded.

He hesitated. “You better not scream,” he warned.

She shook her head. He reached over and pulled the tape off. For a second she breathed deeply through her mouth, and then in gulps, crying with no tears.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy? You can’t do this. I’m—It hurts. What did you do to me? My whole body. It feels like—Oh, God, let me get up. I can’t stand this. Jesus, are you crazy?” She shivered convulsively. “I’m so cold—”

“Shut up,” Troland barked. “I could kill you. Understand?”

“Don’t kill me!” she cried. “Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. I didn’t do anything. I did what you wanted. Why are you doing this?” Her words came in gulps.

“Shut up,” Troland commanded again. “Can’t you hear? I’m telling you to shut up. I’m in control here. You have to do what I say.” He stood over her waving the gun.

“Okay, okay, okay. Don’t hurt me,” she cried.

“I didn’t hurt you.” He was disgusted. She wouldn’t stop jerking her body around. “I can’t finish like this.”

“But what is it? What are you doing to me? Oh, God.” She lifted her head. “Ahhhhh.”

“SHUT UP!” Troland raised the gun to strike, but he didn’t want to damage his own work.

“You’re freaking me out. Stop it, I can’t concentrate.”

“Ahhhhh,” she cried, trying to look at herself. “What is it? What did you do to me?”

“It’s just a tattoo. Now shut up.”

“A tattoo. Jesus, a tattoo? Ooohh. A tattoo, why does it hurt all over? Oh God, it hurts all over.”

“Yeah, it’s a big one,” Troland said proudly.

“Ohhhh noooo. Ahhh,” she cried. “Oh God, oh Jesus. Oh God, no. Oh, no, you got to let me go? Oh, no. I can’t—”

It was irritating. It was good. Troland was full of rage and power, and also a feeling of impotence. He couldn’t get her to shut up, but he liked it. The fear was good. The girl was out of her mind. It was good to watch, but it was getting in the way. He wanted to finish. Yeah, watch her face as he tattooed her tit, so he could think about it. But she wouldn’t calm down. She was off the wall. He’d never seen anyone so off the wall.

He was like a squirrel in the road with a car coming on, that didn’t know which way to run. He had time, but he didn’t have time. He picked up the tattoo machine and turned it on, once, twice, three times. But each time she keened and twisted so much he couldn’t continue.

“You got to let me go. Please let me go. I can’t take it,” she cried.

“I have to pee. Let me pee. Just let me pee. I’ll come back. Just let me pee. I won’t do anything. I won’t go anywhere. You have to let a person pee.”

He couldn’t let her pee. He didn’t have handcuffs. He didn’t like them. Handcuffs made him sick. Willy, what do I do? He hadn’t thought of her having to pee. No! He couldn’t let her up. She was crazy. He couldn’t trust her. She’d start jumping around. He made a note to think about what to do when the next one had to take a leak.

“I’m going to tape your mouth again. You want that?”

“No, no, no—”

“Then shut up and let me concentrate. I’m almost finished.”

“But I can’t hold it. You want me to pee in the bed?”

“I want you to lie still and shut up.”

“But I got to pee,” she protested. “It’s not my fault.”

“You can pee when I’m finished.”

She started to cry. “Let me go. Oh, God, are you going to let me go? Oh, please.”

He turned on the machine again and freehand, while she was moving around, made a quick question mark in the soft under part of her upper arm.

“Oh, oh, oh,” she cried. “Oh, it hurts. Oh, God.”

And suddenly the bed was wet. Troland jerked back.

“Shit!” The bitch wet the bed.

Now she was crying harder. “Oh, let me go. Oh, God. It’s all wet. Please.”

She wet his mother’s bed. He could see her coming out of the wall, shaking her head with disgust. Can’t you be clean. Can’t you ever be clean?

Troland turned away from her to the girl on the bed. The girl was all wet. Wet from all the A and D ointment he had used. Wet with tears and snot and the heavy stink of sex and sweat and urine. She was still crying, begging for release. It went too far inside Troland’s head for him to come back. He struck without thinking. He leaned forward with his two hands spread, his right thumb on top of the left. The left one was the strong one. He pressed hard. He was a fixer. He fixed the place where the sound came out. Easy. One two three and her larynx was crushed.

A few minutes later, when he realized she was dead, he was upset. He had forgotten he had to brand her first. Now it was too late. He had no interest in branding a dead thing. He chided himself. He hadn’t gotten it right. Then he studied the tattoo. It was gorgeous. He took a few minutes to finish it. Then he snapped a Polaroid so he could see it whenever he wanted. He studied it critically. He was pleased there were no bruises on her neck. She was a little strange around the mouth. Waxy and slightly blue. And even with her eyes closed, the tension was still there. He’d never killed anyone with his own hands before. It was interesting. It was even good. She deserved it. She didn’t do what he said.

See that, Willy. She didn’t do what I said.

He didn’t hear a word of complaint from Willy, so he ate an orange and took another picture without the head showing. That was better.

When night came, he dug a small deep hole under the huge bougainvillea where he had played as a child years ago. He put her inside several extra-heavy, garden-sized garbage bags, sealed them carefully, and placed her in a crouched position in her grave.