Killing Jenny [Proză scurtă]
He had always loved Jennifer –desperately, endlessly, loved her the way he could, loved holding her tight in his arms. So that evening’s Jennifer had come out as something out of his own mind’s conception; he still couldn’t clearly recount her words, her “ain’t-got-time-for-this” lack of reasoning and her hurried, inconvenienced dash through the door. That bell had rang furiously, the bell she had got for him at some point and hung over the doorknob; it was a sound of wreckage. It was –let’s see, it was right after Jennifer had moved, and he –he had bought that Bourbon bottle to celebrate with her. And after she had left, he –what had he done? He was shaking, that he knew; shaking like the devil, somewhat in the same position she had left him, or maybe tripping and falling over himself, or maybe standing still, and the television was on, and he had turned it off, and the fuzzy noises had ceased, and he had finally come to a realization, and –he had smiled.
And he had always tried with Jennifer –this wasn’t their first argument, but one of many more, and he had always did his best and –oh Jennifer, if only you’d give me one more chance– he had always thought; he could have made everything right, but she was gone, gone from him and he– he was left with that Bourbon bottle, the bottle he had bought to enjoy with her and for her, standing ridiculously on the shelf. And he’d love her endlessly, so why did he have to drink it by himself?
And why had he always felt that desperate desire to hold her, hold her tight, feel his darling until he was satisfied? Now he was unsatisfied, and it was ironical; the whole of Jennifer’s moving away was ironical, it had been an excuse to distance herself from him, ever since he had seen her holding another boy’s hand –who had been that boy? Oh, Jennifer, tell me where I stand –he had pleaded with her; but now she couldn’t answer anymore, and he had come to a second realization –he hadn’t even loved her, not even when she had been in his arms; he never liked her hair, or those people she would be with, yet–
He had always thought of holding her in his arms while drinking the Bourbon.
It was midnight, and the noises were fuzzy and incoherent again, and she was on the back seat of her own car, wrapped in a blanket, and tied, and he was driving –faster, faster.
He had lured her out with the swift promise of a secret, sweet and unquestionable, and she had agreed to listen, agreed as a last favor of what she could do for him, and he had told her not to tell anyone, and outside it had all been quiet in the beginning –and then when he had caught her off-guard, she had made an almost inaudible noise, what kind of noise, he couldn’t tell. Turned her face, that was what she did; and probably tried to speak, unable to release herself from his grip, but no-one heard her cry –he had made sure of that beforehand.
He was grinning while he kept urging himself to raise the speed; she was in the back, and she was perfectly tied up, that he knew –but she was still trying to make movements. And he was cursing himself, cursing for underneath the blanket as she was struggling with her fear he could see her short skirt, and he cursed as to why even now it tempted him so much – tempted to look up, look up, look up. Yes, if he had to clearly think about it, he could have overcome everything –there was hope for deepest despairing like his, he could cease it all now, and end up being surrounded by all those righteous people wishing to help him cope with it, but dammit, he’d think while seeing her in the mirror –you’ve got a real short skirt, and boy, I have to drive faster, drive faster, boooy!
Somewhere in his head, somewhere in the back, there were images of what the two of them had been, and he kept speaking to her of that, as if to calm her and take her fear off her mind, and she kept struggling while he spoke. He spoke to her about everything, they had had such a good thing going on, they had been such a good thing! Argh, he cursed again; if only she could fix it all, all that which she had hurt, but since she couldn’t, she just had to make it go away without a word, that was it, it was his limit, it was all just in time, he had never driven that fast before!
The tides were crashing, and they wouldn’t hide her, not even after she couldn’t breathe anymore, and he was sure she couldn’t breath, baby couldn’t breath for he had taken her last breath beneath all those stars, gazing above like a massive atmospheric chandelier. But he could still see her, even as the water was engulfing her, he fancied he could see all her curls, and gloss, and all his jealousy reflected in her; and it was midnight, and that was the last he would see of her –she was disappearing, simply as that; oh no, no, no, why was she disappearing, she was barely visible now, or was she? Baby –he thought; the water would get her eventually; and it would all be their secret, her secret, his secret, the tides’ secret.
He had taken her to the midnight show, exactly as she had wanted.
The helicopter was fuzzing above, and he could never get rid of the constant fuzz lately, it had followed him everywhere these past few days since it had happened –but he clearly had no motive for the crime.
Known her? Of course, he had known Jenny. Yes, Jenny, that was the poor girl’s name, it was how everybody called her; he used to call her Jenny too. They had been friends. No, merely friends, that was all they had been; but yes, he had driven with her in her car that night, and was the last to see her. What had happened? Well, let’s see. They had taken a walk, a detour on the promenade, and there had been an unnatural tension between them, as if things were different from usual, and it was raining –and yes, I admit, we had a fight– that he could tell the policemen. On the promenade, in the middle of the rain, she had said she loved him, but then she had added that she had somewhere to go –and he vividly remembered that one image, the image of her being held by him very close, and her being unable to scream. But heavens, why were they questioning him like that, he had no motive for the crime, none at all, for why would he kill her, since she was a friend of his?
He would tell them everything they wanted to know, absolutely everything, even when they kept whispering threats in his ear, even when it was time for him to go, for it was in his rights, he knew them, for he had no reason to conceal anything. Jenny had parted with him then and there, choking her goodbye and going her way, God knows where; he had returned walking all that great distance in the rain. And he couldn’t take it anymore, oh c’mon, oh c’mon, oh c’mon, I swear I told you the truth, it was the truth, and Jenny couldn’t scream while he was holding her, and he was holding her close, and he had sworn he would never, ever let her go, and there was no motive for that crime–
He was perfectly innocent, he believed; Jenny had been a friend of his.
N-am mai postat nimic pe site de o groază de vreme (pentru că nu am mai scris nimic beletristic de o groază de vreme). Prin urmare, m-am uitat în folderele cu poveşti vechi, să văd ce mai pot dezgropa. Când eram mai mică, îmi plăceau la nebunie The Killers. Printre primele chestii scrise de mine în engleză, era şi o poveste, Killing Jenny, bazată pe cele trei melodii de la The Killers care alcătuiau The Murder Trilogy:
De altfel, Jenny was a friend of mine a fost şi primul track de pe primul lor album – Hot Fuss – şi printre primele melodii pe care le-am ascultat de la ei.
Imaginea e de pe http://galaxybackground.com/music-the-killers-wallpaper/