A Story

In honor of the weirdest and most everfreakinglasting “holiday” in our culture, I thought I’d post a story I wrote in a creative writing class a couple years ago. It’s creepy. And I’m kinda proud of it.

Death by Nuts

I killed a man today. His blood is on my hands. It started as any other normal day. In the rush of a Monday morning, wet hair and ten minutes late, as usual, I ran into my favorite coffee shop for my morning wake up call. I order the same thing every morning, a large cappuccino. But today I was feeling adventurous. I had an interview later that day for a big promotion at work and in the spirit of changing things up I ordered a splash of hazelnut. I’m crazy like that. While I was waiting, I perused the local paper and the man waiting in line just behind me picked up my drink, assuming it was his. When I turned to grab my coffee, all I saw was my cup on the floor, hazelnut coffee everywhere and the man looking past me as though he was deep in thought. Before I could ask him if he was okay, he started coughing and spitting, grabbing at his now red throat with his tongue hanging out looking like a giant sausage.
    Oh. My. Gosh.
    I thought I had entered some bizarre deleted scene from “The Exorcist”.
    Before the paramedics could make it there, this man, husband, father and possible grandfather died. They said it was a severe nut allergy. The man was murdered by a nutty syrup. Chosen by me.   
I didn’t make it to that interview today. After I got back home, vomited, cried and vomited again, I sat in a scalding hot bath. I was chilled to the bone in spite of the early summer weather, in spite of the boiling bath. I don’t know how long I was in there but the water was freezing cold by the time I was wrapped up in my terry cloth robe, my comforter and 4 other blankets. Is this how it feels to be a murderer?
    I woke up not knowing where I was. It’s dark. The alarm clock read 4:07AM. Then I remembered. That man, so alive one minute and the next he was gone. More tears fall from my swollen eyes. A voice in my head tells me it’s not my fault; I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I wish that voice would speak up so it would drown out the other voice that keeps screaming “MURDERER” with such force, I can hear nothing else. In an attempt to ignore this voice, I grab my iPod and Pink starts singing about some party, I don’t really know or care, I just want her to scream away my guilt.
    The next time I saw the clock it was 9:30AM, rain is beating on my window. This heavy, wet and gray day not only mirrors my mood but seems to act as a compress, relieving some of my pain, pulling out the guilt like an infection. I finally answer my bladder’s call of relief. As I traversed the cold, hard tile of the bathroom, I glance in the mirror and was taken back to my childhood when my sister and I would attempt to conjure up “Bloody Mary”. I’m pretty sure if she had ever shown herself, she would look better than the reflection I see in my mirror. Shock and endless tears are not friendly to the face.
    After taking care of business, I studied my gruesome image. I see baggy, swollen eyes, a paleness that would rival any vampire and patches of red, chapped skin around my nose and eyes from too many cheap tissues. I have a pillow perm that no professional would dare to replicate and probably wouldn’t want to.
    In short, I was a ray of sunshine.
    In the kitchen, I put on a pot of coffee, I’ll be making my own for a while, I think. I pull out my laptop wanting to look up what I know won’t be there yet: an obituary. I bring up The Tribune’s webpage and go directly to the obituary section looking for his name, Jim Reynolds. I am surprised when I find his name. It has been only 24 hours since I killed him, I mean since he passed, and his obituary is already posted. He was a husband and father of three kids, grandfather of five. He had just retired and he and his wife were planning to travel with their newfound time. Time they no longer had. Before I realize it, I am sobbing again. I took that man away from his Golden years.
    I put as much effort into making a great cup of coffee hoping it’ll calm the sobbing. Somehow, that worked and I return to my computer to find out when the funeral is. He was cremated so there was no burial but the family was having a wake on Wednesday at the family home nearby. I couldn’t help but think how fast they were moving with all the arrangements when I noticed the date at the bottom of my screen. Today was Wednesday! In my shock and despair, I lost Tuesday to a self induced coma, hiding from what I had done. I really wanted to tell the family how sorry I was for their loss but I thought I‘d have a day or two to prepare. The wake started at 10 and it was already 15 minutes passed. I had five hours to pull myself together and get over there.
    My shower helped calm my nerves but when I wiped down the fogged up mirror, all I saw was a frightful mess. No amount of make-up would help this train wreck. I opted for a little mascara and lip gloss, pulled my hair back into a ponytail and got dressed.
    I found the address, no problem. It was getting out of the car I was having trouble with. After an hour of nearly hyperventilating in my car, I finally forced myself out and to the front door. There seemed to be an invisible wall over the threshold. I could not get myself to walk in even though the front door was wide open.
    “Hello?” A lovely looking woman stood in the entryway. She had blond hair, big green eyes and was obviously very fit. She looked surprisingly happy for being at a wake.
    “Oh, um…hi. I just wanted to offer my condolences to Mrs. Reynolds and the family. I’m just having a hard time making it there.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to explain myself to this woman, but she gave me a kind smile and said,
    “Oh sweetie, I’m Mrs. Reynolds. You can call me Kathy. Now, how did you know Jim?”
    She gently guided me to the living room where Jim sat in his urn.  There seemed to be very few people in attendance and I caught myself hoping my funeral would be better attended and then kicked myself for having such a thought. I was shocked to find out this woman was the grieving wife. She acted as though this was a dinner party and I was merely a guest.
    “Well, um, I didn’t really know Jim,” I said, trying to hold back the inevitable sob, “I was at the coffee shop when he, ah…passed away. I don’t really know how to say this….but, I am so sorry, it was my coffee he drank. The coffee with the hazelnut in it. It was mine. I can’t tell you how awful I feel about what happened to him! I—“
    “Oh, dear,” she interrupted, handing me a tissue, “have you been blaming yourself? It was an accident! Jim had a severe peanut allergy. He would even have a reaction if he went near any nut vendors at baseball games or at the mall! He always had an EpiPen on with him just in case. I don’t know why he didn’t have it with him that morning. So, please, don’t blame yourself. Sometimes I am amazed he lasted this long!”
    She pulled me into a kind embrace and let me cry. Why was she not the one crying? I just told her I was the reason for Jim’s death and yet she was holding me like a mother holding a daughter in her sorrow. I pulled away with a shy smile and mopped up the damage on my face.
    “What was Jim like?” I asked.
    “Jim was Jim. He was always hard to please and a workaholic,” she said with a low chuckle, “I had convinced him to retire and travel with me, but I don’t think he really wanted to. He worked hard for our family, though. He took care of his family, even if it seemed he didn’t really care at all.”
    She paused for a minute and seemed to be lost in thought. I wasn’t expecting a reply like that and didn’t know what to say so I just waited, allowing silence to take its turn.
    “It’s strange,” she continued, “you wake up to yet another day thinking nothing is going to change. I had made him his favorite muffins but we were out of coffee so he ran to get some. He took one of those muffins while it was still hot, kissed me on the cheek in a way he hadn’t done in years. It was the first time he had said he was excited for our trip. He left and the next thing I know, the police are at my door telling me he was gone. I hate those muffins. I only make them for him. I threw every last one out. I couldn’t bear to even look at them.”
    She turned to me as though she just remembered I was there.
    “You must be thirsty or hungry. Here I am wasting your time on this silliness when there is a ton of food laid out in the kitchen.”
    “Water would be great,” I said.
    I followed her back to the kitchen feeling very confused. Her comment seemed real and yet rehearsed in some way. As soon as she finished she went back to the hostess who was happy to have another guest. I couldn’t figure out why a man with such a severe allergy wouldn’t have his EpiPen on him that morning. It seems like if you had that big of a health risk you would always have it with you.
    She leads me to a table filled with an array of food fit for royalty. It looks as though it’s hardly been touched.
    “Feel free to take whatever you want,” she said, “the drinks are on the end. I just need to go freshen up a bit and I will be back down.”
    I suddenly realize I am hungry at the sight of all this food. There are just a handful of people standing around talking and eating. Where is everybody, I wonder? From what Kathy was saying, maybe he wasn’t the loveable guy I was picturing in my head. I am beginning to wonder if she even cares that he is gone. What she said has somehow made me feel a little better. Some of my guilt for my part in Jim’s death lifts from my soul. But there is a feeling in this house that just isn’t right and I can’t shake it.
    With these conflicting emotions, I have an urgent need to leave but I have to use the bathroom before I go. Not wanting to bother anyone, I go in search of the nearest bathroom. The first door I try, I stumble into the garage. I notice the trashcan just to the side of the door. There are the muffins Kathy said she threw out. Right next to a full looking bag of coffee grounds, a bottle of almond extract and Jim’s EpiPen.
    As I start my car, sweating and panting due to my hasty departure from the house, I tell myself I have done what I came to do. Somehow, I don’t feel any better.

Happy Halloween