*woops

I wrote this story, and I rather likes the themes I used and overall simply amusing. There is some language, so read it at your own risk and dont'e be offended. By the way I wrote it, so you cannot steal it.

He stumbled backwards, a wheezing breath catching in his throat. With a wrinkled, shaking hand he felt for the counter behind himself and missed. Space was suspended for a few terrifying moments and time slowed.
The next thing Frank knew was that he laid on the floor, frozen with shock, and the cooled, bloody mess was soaking into his green cardigan. It was strange to him, really. The only thing the old man was considering was the fact that he could never wear this particular outfit again. He stared up at the water stained ceiling, took in the gray, subdued room.
“Isn’t it strange, Tilda?” He whispered to his wife’s body. “I would think that any other man in this situation…” He paused to clear his throat, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head from the fall. “would certainty be going mad, for they’ve just murdered the one person, the only person that truly loved them back.”
He bit his lip and released a pent up sigh. Outside the wind was teasing the bare trees, abusing at the house with it’s cursed yowling. Frank knew the only thing he had left to do was to simply dispose of his recently deceased partner’s body. But how?
The old man let out a groan as he forced his brittle body to sit up. It felt the same as sitting up from bed every morning, besides the fact that the woman beside him, sprawled out in a bloody array would never sit up with him, never again. All the soreness from a long life of hard work came back as Frank pushed himself to his feet and planted his hands on his hips.
The room before him was in absolute disarray. Just ten minutes before it had been a completely normal place. Now it was home to a crime scene.
“And you’re the wise ass that set it up, cracker.” He muttered to himself, reaching to turn on the tap.
It was an old, Victorian style home of three stories. Frank couldn’t remember the last time his poor, aching legs had allowed him past two flights of stairs, so the very top remained alone, gathering it’s own friends of dust and cobwebs. In the living room there were a few overturned chairs, but the rest remained as it had, with its tacky décor as Tilda had liked it.
But the kitchen, on the other hand, was in quite the disposition. The counters were liberated of any kitchen utensil, and all lay shattered and ruined on the floor. Itself, the floor was stained in blood, and littered with a woman’s body. Frank stared at her for some time, trying to accustom himself to the way her right shoulder protruded more so than her left, how her soft, gray hair was now in a hateful mess of crimson.
“Oh Tilda.” He whispered in a soft voice, weighed with sadness. “What am I going to do with you?” Of course she didn’t dare respond in so reposed a state as she was.
Frank hobbled to the window and parted the musty lace curtain. He remembered very clearly that they had been a wedding gift for his wife and himself. Now at the old age of fifty-five they had certainly seen better days.
Outside all things were normal. The wind made the day seem even more so gray, and the houses of the neighborhood seemed to be especially cramped. Frank winced, for at that moment he felt as though all eyes were on him, and on his sin. And panic began to set in, diminishing his strange calm.
He rushed back into the kitchen and began to drag drawer’s out of their places until he came upon the black garbage bags Tilda had, for some insane reason of hers, insisted on buying in bulk. Ripping one out of its package, Frank set about cleaning up his half an hour old crime scene in the wrong order of ways. His old heart complained over the heavy-duty work of picking up the corpse and shoving it into the bag. By the time he had finished, his back ached in the worst kind of way, and stars danced before his eyes. He set her down in the living room, not minding the fact that blood on the outside of the bag was getting all over the worn rug.
It took the man four hours to clean up the scene, including coffee and newspaper breaks, of course, to turn the kitchen back into what it had once been: a ram shackled mess. No one would know the difference.
Now he collapsed into one the of the cheap, plastic green chairs from the seventies and let his head hang back, sweat dripping down his wrinkled neck. He coughed a few times and lit a cigarette. God, murder was hard. Frank wished already that he had chosen a plastic bag instead of a knife.
“And for what?” He wheezed, taking another drag. Tilda had never allowed him to smoke in the kitchen, but that didn’t appear to be a problem now. “Why did you kill her, you cat loving pussy?” Frank didn’t know. Was he going insane? He sat still for a moment, studying the tiny specs of dust in the dull light from the kitchen window. There had been no reason, really.
He thought about all the stories he had read in the paper about murders. The killer had always had some damn fool reason to deplete their loved one, but Frank couldn’t recall one for his. He had simply stabbed the crap out of her.
“Alright, old man, you’ve gotta do somethin’ with her.” No matter how much he really, really didn’t want to, Frank brought himself back up to his weary feet, now visibly hunched over. He glanced at the clock and scowled. It was already twelve-thirty. He looked down at his clothes and sighed. There was no way these clothes could be cleaned up. His kaki, forties-style pants had dried blood all over the seat, and his favorite green sweater was crusted over in a thick layer of the stuff.
The stairs groaned and complained just as badly as his legs did, and Frank bent over, planting his hands on his knees at the top of the stairs for a breather. He slowly brought his head up and stared into the mirror before him. He was shorter now, than he had been in his earlier years, and his bare head resembled a rotten peach. Now, deep, blue-ish spots carved out the places under his eyes and his veins had begun to show themselves at his temples. The old man sighed and stretched up to standing. He shed his clothes and clomped down the hallway, liberated of man’s burden: fabric.
Frank sorted through his meager supply of clothes until he found an old, faded t-shirt, some loose drawers, a pair of ripped factory pants, and his aged corduroy jacket. He forced a smile onto his face as he buttoned his cufflinks.
“It’s the big day, Tils.” He muttered under his breath. “Wanna go swimmin’, or do ya want a big hug from the cold ground?” He wiped a spot of saliva from his mouth as he descended the stairs. “Ya know, Tilda, I always lived my life with no regrets. I think ya should take it as a compliment that this is the one thing I’m really havin’ trouble not regretting.”
The house felt empty. Too empty. Frank stood in the living room for a few moments, staring at the black garbage bag on the floor in front of him. A part of him wanted it to start moving, and for Tilda to rip a hole in it and climb out. He could see her, a wrinkled old woman standing before him covered in blood, mangled. She would plant her hands on her hips and give him one of her famous exasperated sighs, a smile surfacing just below.
“Frank Wichoswski! What in tha hell were ya thinking?! I ain’t ready to be dead!”
He smiled at the image of her in his head and waited a few moments, half expecting for it to truly happen. But it did not. The bag remained still and the house still kept it’s eerie, empty feeling. Frank slowly bent over and shoved his hands under the edges of the bag.
He could feel his wife’s limbs through the thin plastic and he shuddered. With a great heave, he lifted the bag up and saddled it to his right shoulder, spine giving a few painful cracks.
“I’m much too old for murder.” He mumbled, stumbling towards the front door.
Soon the old man was behind the wheel of his 1986 Oldsmobile, shivering in the late autumn air. He glanced in the mirror at the trunk, which refused to close all the way with Tilda inside. There had been too much crap inside, seeing that Frank’s exceeding laziness prevented him from clean the damn thing out. He had use a bungee cable to fasten it, nerves on end. With a look at the revolver on the seat beside himself, Frank put the car into reverse. Getting this scheme over with would prove a difficult task and Mr. Wichoswski didn’t have a clue as to where he was off to.
Frank turned off his road and poked his way through the suburbs. His philosophy was that yes, he was an old man, so he would drive like one. A person shouldn’t try to be something they’re not. He also had an intense fear of being pulled over. He was afraid Tilda might give him away.
“You ain’t a murderer, Frank, so why ya acting like one?” He put his foot lightly on the gas pedal and nudged down Sven st.
A sudden bump dragged a wheezing gasp out his throat, and there was a muffled clumping noise, barely audible to his worn ears. A glance in the mirror nearly stopped his already tiring heart. Behind the car, in the middle of the road, was the black garbage bag, torn open.
“Fuck!” He breathed, stomping on the brake. The car lurched to a stop two feet farther and Frank struggled with the sticky door for a moment before he was able to rip it open and pull himself out.
He hobbled down the street, head swinging in all directions for onlookers. Getting this body back into the car without arousing suspicion was going to prove quite difficult. He was just about to hoist the bleeding bag into his arms when the peal of a siren almost killed him with surprise.
A blue and white deputy’s car pulled up beside him and an overweight man peered out the passenger’s window. He had a thick brown moustache, eyes obscured by large, green tinted shades, and was chewing gum in a rather obnoxious manner.
“Watcha got there, fella?” He smacked, pushing his cap back on his balding head. Wiry brown hair stuck up in all directions.
Frank blinked, biting his lip. He was momentarily distracted by the deputy’s collection of StarWars bobble heads.
“Uuuuhhh…nothin’, sir… you see, my wife was making me clean out the basement.. and there was a…” The old man paused and glanced around. The officer raised an eyebrow, eyeing the bag on the ground. “…a deer! Yes, there was a deer in the basement, and I couldn’t find my gun… so I hacked it up!”
“I see…” The deputy gave another look at the bag, still seemingly unsure. “Need any help with that? Looks like a mess. I might have some paper towels or extra bags in the trunk.”
“Don’t bother yourself with it, sir. I’ll be fine!” Frank smiled. He shook all over, feeling unreal. The officer gave him a prolonged stare before nodding. He spit out his gum and put the car into drive.
“Well if ya need anything just call us.”
“Of course.” Frank grinned, knowing that holes had already been shot through his story. Firstly, how was there a deer in the middle of the suburbs? There wasn’t a forest or even a field for miles. And secondly-
His heart almost stopped, for there, hanging out of the bag, was a limp, purple tinted hand with red fingernails. For a moment Frank almost believed that his wife had returned from the dead. He hadn’t noticed it there before… -had it been there?
“Well I’ll cya l-..” The cop cut himself off and stared at the bag. His sunglasses slid down his nose. “Sir..” He began to get out of the car.
Now Frank backed away. He groped behind himself for the car window, and when he reached it, opened the door. The overweight deputy was struggling out of the car and reaching for his radio. Mr. Wichoswski grabbed the revolver from the seat and in a single heartbeat fired the gun, eyes squeezed shut.
The poor police officer, whose nametag read Arnold Smith, gasped, dropping the radio. He stared down at the bloodied spot buried deep into his chest and stumbled backwards. Tears formed in his eyes. And he fell to the ground. Within moments he was gone forever.
The revolver was still poised, wielded by a shaking hand. Frank tried to blink away the image, but the blood still spilled out onto the street, and the old man still had a mess on his hands, though now he was considerably more so fucked. It is imperative that I use such a vulgar phrase, reader, because all things considered, it is such a good phrase to use! Frank was now dealing with two murders, one an overweight police officer, dead in the road and not getting anywhere fast.
He looked around now, eyes wild. The feeling that he was being watched was almost smothering. It felt as though everywhere there was a being peeking from behind a curtain, peering from behind a tree, watching him from satellite tv.
Mr. Wichoswski bit through his lip nervously. He threw a garbage bag from the cop’s trunk over the body and commenced with dragging him to the car, leaving the horrible trail of blood behind. He, in such distressed, out of mind- out of body state, did not think to consider cleaning up the blood. There was no time to dilly-dally.
The driver’s back door was always difficult to open, and this time Frank sincerely cursed himself for not buying a new car in the past twenty-two years. His spine cracked profusely as he hoisted the limp, bleeding corpse into the back. His hear raced in such a way that he swore pulmonary failure was upon him.
“Ya damn fool, Frank!” He grunted, shoving at the body. “You’re screwed-“
“Watscha doin’?” Frank spun around so quickly he smashed his arm on the door.
In front of him stood a young girl, raising herself up and down on her toes, brown pigtails bobbing back and forth. She grinned, revealing a wide smile lacking her two front teeth.
“Bug off! I’m busy, kid.” Frank’s scratchy voice was riddled with thick mucus.
“Didya catsch a deersth?!” She squealed. The old man gritted his teeth. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
“You wanna see what’s going on, kid?”
“Yesth!”
“Well too bad, then! Didn’t your mamma teach ya any manners?” He growled.
The girl’s smile vanished. She blinked and took a step back.
“FINE!” She turned on her heel and stomped off, probably off to terrorize some other poor, innocent, defenseless old man.
Frank felt a little better now that he had left that damn fool second crime scene. He glanced in his mirror and sighed, annoyed at himself. There was an obnoxious lump in his back seat, barely covered. A ratty, thin blanket with faded pictures of Ernie and Bert from the children’s show, Sesame Street, screamed suspicious.
He turned onto the highway and drove west, towards a sparsely populated area where he himself had grown up. Memories of the bare nothingness aroused themselves and rolled over in their deep slumber in his mind.
He is a boy no more than twelve. The kid wears dirty slacks rolled up at the ankles and an old sweater despite the heat. It’s worn at the elbows and it’s rough threadbare has nearly reached it’s breaking point. But he doesn’t care. It’s green, and that’s what he likes. His hair’s in a thick, black disarray, and his freckle spattered face shines in the bright, hot sunlight.
Frank struts over to the chicken house, proud to be helping his father. Scared to make a mistake that’ll land him in his room, ass red, purple, throbbing.
He opens the wire and slips inside, careful to not let the half dead chickens out. They’re suffering something terrible in the heat. He throws feed and collects eggs, being the most cautious he’s ever been in his life, he thinks. It’s so long ago that sometimes it’s hard to remember the details.
“Frank?” His father is coughing as he lights up a cigg.
“Yes sir?”
“Gotta go into town. Coming?”
“Yes sir!”
It takes forty-five minutes to reach Lawton, an almost non-existent town far from anything real. There is nothing but a small group of houses, a courthouse-jail-county office-post office, and a general store.
The truck seems to let out a long, tired groan as his father kills the engine. It sighs and crackles in the July heat. Frank likes the noise. He likes everything about automobiles.
But the thing he likes the most, more than anything (besides green sweaters) has to be the general store. His father is buying seed, since their stock was lost in the barn fire the previous year. The boy wanders through the isles, memorizing the precious products over and over. He marvels at the hair gels and the candy selection. Frank doesn’t dare ask for anything, though.
A mind cloudy with thoughts was one of the most irritating things possible, he thought. It was especially bad when he was in such an exhausted state, thinking the same thing over and over, trying to finish a single thought. Frank was tired. He wanted to be rid of these bodies as soon as he could. Again, his asked to the car, and perhaps the dead officer, why did his rob himself of his wife? No answer. He didn’t know.
The trees grew thicker at one point and the houses became farther and farther apart. Soon in the evening’s twilight their lights ceased to exist. There was nothing out here, as Frank remembered it, and he had missed it more so over the long years in the suburbs.
Soon the trees thinned once more and so did the grass. It was dry and windy, cold in the late autumn’s presence. Frank rolled up the window and pushed down his sleeves. God, he had missed this damn place.
And at last the place showed up. It was an old abandoned quarry. He remembered it closing in his younger days.
“Christ, that was years ago. Remember that, Tilda? We used to go swimmin’ in there!” His voice was scratchy and nervous as he glanced in the review mirror.
The water was at the same level, surprisingly. Frank knew that by the time the bodies were discovered he’d probably be dead. He hoped so, at least. He was nervous to die, suddenly, because he knew Tilda would kill him all over.
He hauled them out of the car. Frank’s heart pounded like a jackhammer as he shoved rocks into the garbage bags.
“One..big..shove!” He grunted. Almost there. Almost to the edge. He would be pissed off if he almost made the edge and then died. Very much so. It felt like a reality tv show gone wrong. Who did this?
“Insane people, that’s who!” Tilda whispered playfully in his ear.
“Ya.. think, Til?” He was breathless. Almost to the edge.
They hit the edge a few times going down, but the bodies smacked the grimy waters with a splash that erupted over the vastly bare landscape, and sunk to the bottom, probably to be heard of again sometime, as things go.
Frank stood up and dusted his pants. And he cried for the first time in years. It was the real crying too, full out sobs and tears stained cheeks.
“I’m fucking insane, ain’t I?” He gasped, rubbing his face. “I didn’t even give ya a proper funeral!”
The old man stood for a long time, watching as the night faded and dawn raised. Life was so long, but so short at the same time. He felt the heavy guilt of having taken the life of Tilda, and even the policeman. It wasn’t fair. He lit a cigarette and sighed.
“Oh well. Maybe today’ll be flawless, Tilda. Can’t be so without you. Waddaya gonna do, though? I got stuff to do, I suppose. Someone’s gotta read the paper and spend hours in the store. Of course I won’t buy anything. It’s just what old people do, and I ain’t one to break the tradition.” He took another look at the dawn. It was cold. “Goodbye, Tilda. Please don’t hate me for this, because I love you so dearly.”
He drove back towards the suburbs, nearly nodding off several times. It had been years since he’d stayed up all night. He didn’t relish it, either. All the other fogies would be up now and curious as to why he was coming home and sleeping.
He’d been so lost in his thoughts, so absorbed, that he barely reacted when the car took on a shocking jolt. When it registered, Frank slammed on the brake and shakily climbed out. He clomped around the backside of the car.
“Goddamn it.” He breathed.
Before him, lying mangled in the road was a little girl with brown ponytails.