*Warning: this story contains graphic violence*
I’ve heard that there’s two sides to life. There’s the bright side which hinges on positivity and I’m trying to embrace. Then, there’s the dark side, which is the place where I’m coming from. That day never should have happened, but it did, and now I have to face the consequences of it. I have to face the consequences of my son forever growing up with the name Cooter Luke Duke Emerson thanks to his now very dead father.
The tightness of the handcuffs on my wrists only makes me remember that day in more clarity. It was only a few days ago, but it wasn’t long enough for me to change the baby’s name. He’d just been too clever in doing what he did, and well, I just got that mad.
I suppose it’s important to know that I didn’t mean to kill him, just teach him a lesson. But kill him I did, and I’m not the least bit sorry. If only he hadn’t made me that mad. I wouldn’t have done it. I mean I’m not really insane. At least I don’t think I am.
But what he did? The underhanded, sneaky, two-timing asshole waited until I was back in surgery, fixing some gone wrong thing with my cesarean. He asked the nurse for the baby’s birth certificate application. And you already guessed, didn’t you?
Yep, that conniving asshat changed the baby’s very respectable name of Charles Lukas Emerson to Cooter Luke Duke Emerson!
And to make matters worse, I didn’t even find out until discharge!
Who names their child Cooter? He’s the insane one, I tell you. Cooter? Really? And to add insult to injury he had to throw in the good ol’ boy, Luke Duke, too? What, am I raising hillbillies or something? We are smack dab in the middle of rich man’s country surrounded by Bambis and Kikis and Suttons. And I get Cooter?
The man deserved a spanking and in my drugged out, still feeling pain state I was woman enough to do it.
I strapped him to the bed, a limb at a time. He fought a little until I climbed on top, moved around a little, and got it all nice and stiff. He started screaming when he felt the cold steel of the knife against his skin, so I pulled a sock off his foot and stuck it in his mouth. After all, I couldn’t have him waking the baby. Then, I started slicing carefully, just a tiny bit at a time. Who’d've thought a penis could bleed that much from the teensiest nick? Never mind that it went down his full length (which wasn’t nothing to write home about anyway) and into his scrotum. It was just a scratch really, nothing worth all the tears I saw streaming down his face. I even stitched it closed. He was sleeping by then, anyway, so I just let him sleep.
And sleep. And sleep.
He slept so long I got mad again. Here I was, four days out from having a cesarean, and a second surgery to boot, tending to Cooter all by my lonesome. He could at least wake up and holler so I could unstrap him. But he didn’t so, I climbed on top again, though moving around did nothing but bust all the stitching I did. So I stitched him up again, smacking it around to test the strength of my stitches this time. A little love pat to his cheek and I went back to tending to Cooter.
“Cooter’s got the cooties! Cooter’s got the cooties” ran through my head the whole day. My Percocet just made the children’s taunts louder–which, of course, made me mad.
Madder than a white rabbit late for a tea party.
I called out his name, over and over, and nothing. I went back to the bedroom and found him still sleeping. I palmed him square in the chest, and still he slept. I did it again, adding a duplicate hand print to the one that was there before. No response. I even gave his penis a whack for good measure. Still nothing.
It was then that I knew it. And I knew I was in trouble.
I couldn’t lift him. He weighed at least 175 pounds. I couldn’t drag him because I’d bust some stitches and then who’d take care of Cooter?
So I used the only option I had. I rolled him to the floor, sheet and all, until I reached the cellar, then I rolled him through the door and slammed it shut. I packed Cooter’s diaper bag as full as I could without looking suspicious, then I set about lighting the house on fire. When the blaze got to burning and the smoke got to suffocating, I waited just long enough to get us out without looking suspicious.
While I figured I’d probably get a homeowners insurance check and a life insurance pay out, I sure wasn’t expecting a new set of bracelets.
Or I would’ve changed his name already.
I gave Eric Limer this prompt: There were fifteen pictures left and spare flashbulbs in her pocket.
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