Nervous Twitching

NERVOUS TWITCHING

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THE NIGHT was cold and the air murky. Samantha’s blood was
dark and still warm as it poured out onto the cool pavement from
beneath her shoulder blades.

Neil Hunter was afraid.

Sort of.

He couldn’t quite remember what had happened . . . here, it’s
heavy. It takes two hands just to lift it . . . but the results were plainly
obvious. Samantha was now dead.

Sort of.

Relax. Hold it down. Expose the neck. That’s it. Good, Neil. Good boy.

Samantha’s head rested on the alley floor about two feet away
from her body. Burning tears welled in Neil’s eyes. What had
happened to her? And why couldn’t he remember it?

Well he could remember it.

Sort of.

Good, son. Don’t lose your grip. Lift the axe, aim and drop. Quickly.

He remembered seeing her head rolling away from her body.
And hearing the echoes of her screams bouncing off the alley walls.

Something else echoed there, too. Laughter?

Look at them fluttering helplessly about the yard. It’s funny, but
not funny. It’s somehow pitiful. And the worst thing is that I can’t
help but watch and laugh.

Neil bowed over and released the contents of his stomach onto
the cool pavement, beside the fresh crimson liquid pooling on the
alley floor.

Steam slowly rose from the pair of liquids.

Beside him, her headless body twitched.

He looked up at the decapitated head through the blur of tears.

“Help me,” her lips seemed to say as her mouth moved.

Dad. They won’t stop running around. Do they even know
they’re dead?

And her eyes. They were vacant and staring.

Sort of.

For sometimes her eyes seemed to move, seemed to be
following his own movements.

It’s nervous twitching, Neil. They’ll stop. Funny how they
flutter about even after they are dead, isn’t it? But we both know that
it’s really just nervous twitching. Nothing more.

Neil knelt by Samantha’s head, the taste of bile still strong in his
throat. Although his stomach continued to churn and his heart
continued to ache, he could no longer throw up or cry.

He was beyond all that.

Sort of.

Nothing more than nervous twitching. Keep watching son.
They’ll stop.

Shivering in the cool night air, he picked up her head, the left
cheek matted with blood, now cold, and cradled it in his arms.

He could feel her lips working against his chest.

Sort of funny how they twitch. But they’re not stopping, Dad.
They’re not stopping!

(© 2004 by Mark Leslie Lefebvre)