Love Storm Born

The wind-whipped branches swooshed along the roof, gathering the snow into piles and dumping it to the ground, where it landed with soft plops in the deep snow and loud whumps on the wind-swept sidewalk.  Elsewhere, where the roof had been swept clean, the branches clackety-clacked along the roof tiles.  Inside the house was complete darkness and silence, except in the living room, where a fire in the fireplace crackled and popped.

 

In front of the fireplace a large pile of blankets had apparently been casually tossed.  But, if one were a fly on the wall, one might notice that one side of the pile slowly shifted, as a small, white hand, looking to all the world like a fat, white spider, crept timidly out, pausing to check the temperature of the room.  Having accomplished its mission, the hand slowly slipped back under the blankets, and for the next few minutes all was still again.  Then, along another side of the pile, a mop of curly blonde hair slowly emerged, followed by a face whose eyes darted this way and that, peering through the darkness.

 

Finding nothing threatening lurking in the darkness, Jessica pulled herself out from under the blankets and reached for the flashlight.  Turning it on, she buzzed the room with it, and then went to a drawer and pulled out some batteries.  Walking over to a table, she picked up a radio, changed the batteries, turned it on and tuned in to a local news station.

 

“…of the storm system still moving slowly through the Boston area.  Public officials are asking people to please remain in their homes, as the streets are much too dangerous to be driving on.  At this time, several thousand people are without power due to an auto accident involving a transformer, as well as several downed wires.  Police and Fire personnel are answering calls by the hundreds, and even the manhunt for The Boston Butcher, serial killer of at least 27 young women has been put on hold for the duration.  We can only hope that this monster is holed up somewhere warm, and not roaming the city.  In other news, the Red Sox have announced that…”

 

Jessica turned off the radio and thought about a hot cup of tea.  Thank God for gas stoves on a night like this.  As she headed toward the kitchen, she heard a loud THUMP coming from the area of her front door.  She froze, listening.  Her diligence was rewarded with a soft groan.  Hurrying into the kitchen, she picked up a chefs knife and headed toward the door.  Next to the door was a small window, and Jessica carefully peeked through it, and gasped.  She saw, on her porch, the prone, unmoving figure of a man.

 

Carefully, she aimed her light through the window at the body and moved it up and down over the body.  As the light moved over his waist, she saw crusted, frozen blood and a small seep of fresh blood.  The light moved up further and settled on the face, which was beaten and…a whispered gasp escaped her lips.

 

“Jim!”

 

She quickly moved to open the door and get to him.  Jim was a neighbor, lived a couple of doors down from her.  She got to him and slowly and carefully dragged him into the house, shutting the door behind them.  Further effort managed to get him over to the fireplace, and the pile of blankets quickly went over him.  She went to the kitchen, started the water on the stove, stepped to the bathroom and grabbed some towels.  Going back to the living room, she carefully moved the blankets, pulled up his shirt and examined his wound.  It looked deep, and continued to bleed sullenly.

 

Leaving it for the moment, she went to the kitchen, got the water and returned to the living room.  She cleaned the wound as best she could, laid a towel over it.  Getting up, she proceeded to the bedroom, where she obtained the sash from her bathrobe, which she used to tie the towel firmly over the wound.  Covering him back up, she slumped down and drifted off to sleep.

 

She awoke stiff and sore, slumped against a chair leg.  Once she got her eyes open, she noticed three things: the fire was out, the power was on and Jim was staring at her.  Groaning, she sat up and checked his side.  The towel was not completely soaked with blood, but it was close.  She sat back and looked at him.

 

“Jim, you really need to see a doctor.  What happened?”

 

“I…I’m not…sure.  I was walking home…something hit me…and I woke up here.  What did happen?”

 

“I found you on my porch.  I think after the doctor, maybe you should see the police.”

 

“Yeah…although I don’t know what they could do.  Any evidence outside is under a foot of snow.”  He groaned.  “I need to get home…see how the cats are faring.  Then I’ll go to the hospital.”

 

“Do you need me to drive you?”

 

“No, thank you.  I’ll manage.  When everything is done, perhaps I could take you out to dinner..sort of a Thank You?”

 

“It’s a possibility.  Get better and we’ll see.”

 

Well, Jim got better and they went to dinner.  That led to another dinner, which led to another dinner, which led to breakfast…in bed…at Jessicas’ house.  During this time, whatever the Red Sox had announced apparently worked, as they began winning games in a serious manner.  The Boston Butcher also stepped up his efforts, and his current tally was 34 dead girls.  Things progressed along swimmingly for everyone, and after about a year, Jim and Jessica were married.

 

Life went on, as it often does, and before anyone realized it, 30 years had passed.  Jim and Jessica became very involved with their church, with their community and, after the children started arriving, with their school and PTA.  The children grew, as children do, went off on their own, ended up with children of their own.

 

As this particular 30 year period drew to a close, a couple of things happened that no one really saw coming.  The Red Sox made it to the World Series…and Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer…terminal pancreatic cancer.  He opted not to have any chemo or radiation treatments, instead preferring to enjoy what was left of his life with his love.  And, enjoy life they did, for another three months.

 

There came day, however, when he could no longer rise from bed, and soon he sank into a semi-coma, and his family knew the end was near.  The doctor was called, who informed them that it was time to say good-bye, and perhaps a priest for the Last Rites would be a good idea.  The children came, weeping, to say their good-byes, as did the grandchildren.  During this time, Jim swam in and out of consciousness, and finally, Jessica told him that their local priest was there.  The good father came in, and as he did, Jim seemed to revive and awaken a bit.  Jessica slipped out quietly.

 

“Son, before the last rites, would you like me to hear your confession?”

 

“Yes, Father, I would…Skipping all the small crap…Father, I have to say…I am the Boston Butcher…”

 

“You’re the one who killed thirty some girls 30 years ago?  I’m not sure about absolution if that can’t be remedied in some way…”

 

“Father…I know there is no absolution for me…but I have to get it out there…yes…I am the killer…but you don’t completely understand…Father…I never stopped the killing.  The current and final total…is God! The pain…let me rest.  Father, I’m up to one hundred and seventy…………oooonnnneee…..”

 

The last word came out with a long exhalation…followed by complete silence.