BECAUSE SHE LOVES ME
by MARK EDWARDS
Genre: Mystery Thriller
by MARK EDWARDS
Genre: Mystery Thriller
There is a fine membrane that covers the surface of the eye, called the conjunctiva. This membrane protects the sclera, or the white part of the eye. I knew this from staring at a poster in a waiting room at Moorfields. Iris, retina, pupil, cornea, optic nerve. These words tumbled through my brain at lightning speed, on rapid repeat—iris, retina, pupil, cornea, optic nerve—as I screamed and begged for Rachel to stop, screaming abuse, begging for mercy—iris, retina, pupil, cornea, optic nerve—every noise I made muffled by the gag in my mouth, the neighbours so close but oblivious to what was happening to me—iris, retina, pupil, cornea, optic nerve—and the hard pain of the clamps that dug into my eye sockets intensified as I tried desperately to buck and writhe and get a hand free from the cuffs. But I couldn’t move, not with Rachel straddling my body, not with the handcuffs that secured my wrists like a carpenter’s vice. And the drug she had given me had made me weak, my muscles heavy and pathetic. While my brain leapt and sparked and screeched, my body lay there like a newborn baby’s, stranded, helpless. At Rachel’s mercy.
With the calm precision of a surgeon, Rachel sliced through the conjunctiva of my left eye and into the sclera, then across, slashing through the cornea and pupil. She hummed something under her breath as she drew the blade across my eye.
I blacked out.
When I came to, she was still on top of me, dabbing at my cheek with a cloth.
The pain in my eye hit me like a tsunami and I almost went under again, craving oblivion. But she slapped my cheek, kept me awake.
‘Look at me,’ she said softly.
My left eye, the eye that the surgeons had worked so hard on to repair last year, was blind. My remaining good eye swivelled towards her, the clamp digging into the bone. It kept filling with tears which dripped down my face. I made a choking noise and she pulled the gag away from my mouth.
The first words I tried to speak came out as a rasp. She tipped some water down my throat, smiling kindly. I managed to speak. ‘I’m begging you, Rachel. I’ll live with you. I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t make me blind. Please.’
She carefully removed the clamp from the wounded eye and I squeezed it shut. The pain was like nothing I had ever known. Indescribable.
She leant forward and kissed the bloody eyelid.
‘Take a good look, Andrew,’ she said in that velvet-and-nails voice. ‘I want you to remember what I look like. I want you to be able to see me in your head when we make love.’
‘Please Rachel, please don’t blind me.’
She moved the blade towards my remaining good eye as I struggled and tried to throw her off. But I couldn’t get any leverage and my limbs were limp and useless.
I spat in her face.
She sat back, a look of stunned horror on her face. For a fleeting moment, I felt good. ‘I’d rather fuck a dog than fuck you,’ I said. But she smiled at me like I was a toddler who’d said something silly. ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said, yanking my jaw and slipping the gag back onto my mouth, pulling it tight. ‘You’ve got to be a good boy. When I’m looking after you, if you do naughty
things, you will be punished. Like this.’
She leaned away and slashed the scalpel across my chest. Compared to the pain in my eye, it was a scratch. I wanted to scream at her. Tell her to do her worst. I wanted to die, but more than that: I wanted her dead. I conjured up every bit of strength I had left and bucked and thrashed and struggled, but whatever she had given me meant I hardly moved, and she laughed.
She brought the blade back towards my eye.
The front door opened with a rattle and click.
Rachel sat up, looking at her watch, as if she had been expecting someone, but not so soon. I realised I had been holding my breath, and exhaled through my nose, relief flooding through me. Rachel dismounted me and picked up the butcher’s knife from the bedside table where she’d left it, moving slowly, careful not to make a noise. I shouted into the gag.
A voice called out. ‘Hello?’ It was Charlie.
I tried harder to shout, to warn her. But all I could do was turn my head and watch with my remaining good eye – Oh God, I was blind in one eye – as she came into the room. As she took in the scene – Rachel with the knife, me naked and bloody on the bed – her mouth fell open and she tried to back out of the room. But Rachel grabbed her by the arm with her free hand, pulling Charlie and throwing her across the room. She crashed into the chest of drawers and fell to her knees.
‘What have you done to him?’ she screamed, eyeing the knife and staying where she was.
Rachel panted, ignoring the question. ‘How did you get here so quickly?’
I guessed from this question that Rachel had been expecting Charlie. No doubt Rachel was planning to kill her too, but she wanted me blind and helpless first, so I would have to listen to my girlfriend – if she was still my girlfriend – die. Charlie was the one Rachel hated the most. Because she was the woman I really loved.
Charlie climbed to her feet. Through the tears pooling in my right eye, everything was blurred, colours and shapes swimming in the bright light.
‘How did you get here?’ Rachel demanded, jabbing the knife towards her. A male voice said, ‘I gave her a ride.’
I turned my head. Rachel turned too. I was Henry. Huge, muscular, strong, tall Henry. Come to save us. Oh thank God thank God. He stepped towards Rachel with his hand outstretched, a towering presence, his motorbike boots thumping on the floor. He opened his mouth and said, ‘Give me—’
Rachel plunged the knife into his chest. I watched in stunned horror – everything in slow motion – as our apparent saviour slumped to the floor, hitting the ground with a thump.
I had barely taken this in when Charlie jumped onto Rachel’s back. My tormentor spun, sending Charlie flying backwards, colliding with the wardrobe. Rachel leapt on her with a yell, shifted the knife to her left hand and punched her in the face with her right. She grabbed Charlie’s cheeks and smashed the back of her head into the corner of the chest of drawers, a sickening cracking sound filling the room.
I tried to cry out. Charlie!
She didn’t move. Rachel stood over her, looking down, panting. Then she came back over and climbed onto me.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ she said, replacing the knife with the scalpel.
This was it. I was going to be blind. This was my punishment for escaping injury in the crash that killed my parents and paralysed my sister. A dark spirit had been stalking me, ever since that day. It had tried to blind me last year. Now it was going to happen. Justice was being done on behalf of the universe, of all the laws of fate, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing.
Behind Rachel, I saw Charlie pus herself onto her hands and knees.
I made a loud noise in my throat, thrashed my head, tried to make Rachel believe I was choking, swallowing my tongue.
Not wanting me dead, Rachel pulled the gag down.
‘Under the chest of drawers,’ I yelled to Charlie. ‘The knife!’
The knife that Charlie had thrown during her jealous rage about Sasha. It had spun under the chest of drawers. If fate really wanted me to go blind, it would have told Maria, my new, competent cleaner, to find it, remove it, put it back in the kitchen. If there was no such thing as dark spirits, the knife would still be there.
Rachel tried to get off me, to grab her butcher’s knife, and I used every shred of willpower I possessed to buck and knock her off balance as she got off. She stumbled and tripped over Henry’s body, landing face-first with a grunt, but still holding onto the knife.
It didn’t matter. Charlie had found my knife under the chest of drawers and scrambled to her feet with it. There was no dark spirit. No fate. No pre-destined blindness. Just luck.
Charlie stood over my attacker, over the woman who had tried to destroy our lives. Holding the knife in both hands, Charlie brought it down, with all her strength, between Rachel’s shoulder blades.
With the calm precision of a surgeon, Rachel sliced through the conjunctiva of my left eye and into the sclera, then across, slashing through the cornea and pupil. She hummed something under her breath as she drew the blade across my eye.
I blacked out.
When I came to, she was still on top of me, dabbing at my cheek with a cloth.
The pain in my eye hit me like a tsunami and I almost went under again, craving oblivion. But she slapped my cheek, kept me awake.
‘Look at me,’ she said softly.
My left eye, the eye that the surgeons had worked so hard on to repair last year, was blind. My remaining good eye swivelled towards her, the clamp digging into the bone. It kept filling with tears which dripped down my face. I made a choking noise and she pulled the gag away from my mouth.
The first words I tried to speak came out as a rasp. She tipped some water down my throat, smiling kindly. I managed to speak. ‘I’m begging you, Rachel. I’ll live with you. I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t make me blind. Please.’
She carefully removed the clamp from the wounded eye and I squeezed it shut. The pain was like nothing I had ever known. Indescribable.
She leant forward and kissed the bloody eyelid.
‘Take a good look, Andrew,’ she said in that velvet-and-nails voice. ‘I want you to remember what I look like. I want you to be able to see me in your head when we make love.’
‘Please Rachel, please don’t blind me.’
She moved the blade towards my remaining good eye as I struggled and tried to throw her off. But I couldn’t get any leverage and my limbs were limp and useless.
I spat in her face.
She sat back, a look of stunned horror on her face. For a fleeting moment, I felt good. ‘I’d rather fuck a dog than fuck you,’ I said. But she smiled at me like I was a toddler who’d said something silly. ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said, yanking my jaw and slipping the gag back onto my mouth, pulling it tight. ‘You’ve got to be a good boy. When I’m looking after you, if you do naughty
things, you will be punished. Like this.’
She leaned away and slashed the scalpel across my chest. Compared to the pain in my eye, it was a scratch. I wanted to scream at her. Tell her to do her worst. I wanted to die, but more than that: I wanted her dead. I conjured up every bit of strength I had left and bucked and thrashed and struggled, but whatever she had given me meant I hardly moved, and she laughed.
She brought the blade back towards my eye.
The front door opened with a rattle and click.
Rachel sat up, looking at her watch, as if she had been expecting someone, but not so soon. I realised I had been holding my breath, and exhaled through my nose, relief flooding through me. Rachel dismounted me and picked up the butcher’s knife from the bedside table where she’d left it, moving slowly, careful not to make a noise. I shouted into the gag.
A voice called out. ‘Hello?’ It was Charlie.
I tried harder to shout, to warn her. But all I could do was turn my head and watch with my remaining good eye – Oh God, I was blind in one eye – as she came into the room. As she took in the scene – Rachel with the knife, me naked and bloody on the bed – her mouth fell open and she tried to back out of the room. But Rachel grabbed her by the arm with her free hand, pulling Charlie and throwing her across the room. She crashed into the chest of drawers and fell to her knees.
‘What have you done to him?’ she screamed, eyeing the knife and staying where she was.
Rachel panted, ignoring the question. ‘How did you get here so quickly?’
I guessed from this question that Rachel had been expecting Charlie. No doubt Rachel was planning to kill her too, but she wanted me blind and helpless first, so I would have to listen to my girlfriend – if she was still my girlfriend – die. Charlie was the one Rachel hated the most. Because she was the woman I really loved.
Charlie climbed to her feet. Through the tears pooling in my right eye, everything was blurred, colours and shapes swimming in the bright light.
‘How did you get here?’ Rachel demanded, jabbing the knife towards her. A male voice said, ‘I gave her a ride.’
I turned my head. Rachel turned too. I was Henry. Huge, muscular, strong, tall Henry. Come to save us. Oh thank God thank God. He stepped towards Rachel with his hand outstretched, a towering presence, his motorbike boots thumping on the floor. He opened his mouth and said, ‘Give me—’
Rachel plunged the knife into his chest. I watched in stunned horror – everything in slow motion – as our apparent saviour slumped to the floor, hitting the ground with a thump.
I had barely taken this in when Charlie jumped onto Rachel’s back. My tormentor spun, sending Charlie flying backwards, colliding with the wardrobe. Rachel leapt on her with a yell, shifted the knife to her left hand and punched her in the face with her right. She grabbed Charlie’s cheeks and smashed the back of her head into the corner of the chest of drawers, a sickening cracking sound filling the room.
I tried to cry out. Charlie!
She didn’t move. Rachel stood over her, looking down, panting. Then she came back over and climbed onto me.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ she said, replacing the knife with the scalpel.
This was it. I was going to be blind. This was my punishment for escaping injury in the crash that killed my parents and paralysed my sister. A dark spirit had been stalking me, ever since that day. It had tried to blind me last year. Now it was going to happen. Justice was being done on behalf of the universe, of all the laws of fate, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing.
Behind Rachel, I saw Charlie pus herself onto her hands and knees.
I made a loud noise in my throat, thrashed my head, tried to make Rachel believe I was choking, swallowing my tongue.
Not wanting me dead, Rachel pulled the gag down.
‘Under the chest of drawers,’ I yelled to Charlie. ‘The knife!’
The knife that Charlie had thrown during her jealous rage about Sasha. It had spun under the chest of drawers. If fate really wanted me to go blind, it would have told Maria, my new, competent cleaner, to find it, remove it, put it back in the kitchen. If there was no such thing as dark spirits, the knife would still be there.
Rachel tried to get off me, to grab her butcher’s knife, and I used every shred of willpower I possessed to buck and knock her off balance as she got off. She stumbled and tripped over Henry’s body, landing face-first with a grunt, but still holding onto the knife.
It didn’t matter. Charlie had found my knife under the chest of drawers and scrambled to her feet with it. There was no dark spirit. No fate. No pre-destined blindness. Just luck.
Charlie stood over my attacker, over the woman who had tried to destroy our lives. Holding the knife in both hands, Charlie brought it down, with all her strength, between Rachel’s shoulder blades.