Why Did You Kill Me?

A story of domestic violence

Trigger warning: According to The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, one in three women (35.6%) and one in four men (28.5%) in the US have experienced rape, physical violence, and/or stalking by an intimate partner in their lifetime. The following story deals with those sensitive topics.

It had been a rough night, and now it was a worse morning. Was it morning? Marty didn’t know for sure because he didn’t even know what time it was.

The last thing he remembers is Bob Jett catching himself on fire while lighting his farts. Devon and the rest of his pack thought it funny at first. Bob was ever the clown, and the girls loved him.

They had been at Elmer’s, an uptown saloon on the south side. He remembered ordering a round of shots for everyone. Only Dave Kimminau objected. Something about having to be in court in the morning. Well, fuck him. The rest of us knocked them back.

There was a slight lull in the conversation afterward. It might have been the realization that we were acting like idiots. After all, none of the girls gave us as much as a glance. We were just a bunch of fucked up young lawyers trying to impress each other.

It was Roger’s turn to buy and a good time for me to duck out and drain the dragon. The bathroom doors opened out for reasons known only to the establishment. As I zipped up and pushed open the door, I heard an “ouch” and felt a thud from the other side. I hit someone with the fucking door.

A girl was leaning against the wall, holding her bleeding nose.

“What the fuck, dude,” she mumbled through her hand.

“Oh shit, man, I’m sorry. Don’t know why those fucking doors open to the outside,” Marty said, without even thinking to offer an apology.

“You got something for this?” asked the girl, removing her hand from her nose.

He noticed she was pretty, even through all the blood.

“Oh, sure, yeah. Here,” Marty said, handing her his handkerchief, which, to his relief, had not been used. Giving the girl whose nose he may have broken a snot-filled handkerchief would be the ultimate insult.

The girl began moving past him now into the club proper. He more or less moved with her. She took the first available seat. Two others sat at the table, and one objected, saying the seat was taken.

“Fuck off!” said the girl through the handkerchief.

The young couple considered this remark momentarily and then got up and took another table. This one didn’t have a bloody, foul-mouthed blonde sitting at it.

Marty said nothing. He stood there, hands in his pockets, unsure what to say.

“Gee! You’re fucking sorry you tried to kill me with the door to the shitter!” she said, loudly this time, as there were no impediments to her speech, such as blood, hands, and snot rags.

“Oh, well, yeah. I guess,” he managed to squeak out. “I mean, it was an accident.”

The girl looked at him now, her eyes narrowing. She shook her head and started to stand up, shaking a bit and falling into me. She pushed me away and started to walk off.

“Wait,” he said. “I am sorry. Let me buy you a drink.”

Several hours later, the lights blinked off and on. It was closing time. Could it be that late?

Marty and Marie, the girl with the almost broken nose, pulled on their jackets. They had learned much about each other since that door slammed into her face.

Marie pulled out her phone and began searching. Marty wondered if she was calling an Uber.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked. “I have a car. It’s not much, but it gets me around.”

Her blue eyes explored his face before she spoke.

“You don’t know where I’m going,” she said. “I could live in the next county.”

Marty laughed and asked, “Do you?” Laughing again.

“I live on the corner of Oak and Elm. I’m into trees,” she said, a slight smile on her face.

“Hey. Cool. I live at Acorn and Pine,” he laughed. “Looks like we’re both into trees.”

They laughed together now as she climbed into his car.

Marty hauled himself out of bed. At first, he didn’t know where he was. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon. How long had he been asleep? He took a piss, splashed hot water on his face, and began to shave.

Then he saw the scratches on his cheek. At least one of them was long and deep. What the fuck happened last night? His headache was nuclear—one that caused even the eyes to hurt.

The phone rang. It was Roger.

“Hey, man. What happened to you last night? Did you get laid?” he asked laughingly.

Marty didn’t feel like laughing and didn’t know what had happened to him the previous night.

“Get laid?” asked Marty. “What are you talking about, dude?”

“Don’t you fucking remember? You left with that beautiful blonde, man!” he exclaimed.

Flashes of the evening were coming back to him now. Bob Jett lighting a fart that almost earned him a trip to the ER. Lots of booze. A bottle of Johnny Walker? Really? The bathroom. A girl. Blood. The car. More blood.

Marty felt the fear now. He told Roger he would call him back and hung up. Too many memories and no time for distractions.

He sat on the edge of the couch and contemplated pouring a shot. The hair of the dog works, and he needs to get rid of this headache. He lay back down, his hands over his eyes. That is when he heard her, the little girl.

“Why did you kill me?” asked the voice from the dark corner on the other side of the room. “Why did you kill me?”

Marty’s first thought: “What the fuck?”

It was a cloudy day, almost dark, and thunder clapped in the distance. He had a hard time making out the silhouette in the corner. He squinted his eyes. It was a little girl—a little girl in a frock.

Marty began to wonder if he was dreaming. It had been a late night, after all. Lots of weird dreams were borne out of alcohol-infused bar nights. Then the dream spoke again:

“Why did you kill me?” the voice asked yet again.

The memories started rushing to the front of his mind now. The girl. Marie. Yes. That was her name: Marie. We hit it off. She was fun and good-looking. He wanted her.

Marty got off the bed and headed toward the kitchen. He needed a shot—something to chase away the craziness. That’s when he saw it: the body. Marie. She was lying on the kitchen floor, close to the entrance. Her clothes were torn, and her panties were around her ankles.

Fear struck Marty now as he remembered what he had done in the early morning. He had beaten a woman to death. Marie.

He stood there staring; the little girl stood in the corner of the kitchen.

“Why did you kill me?” she asked.

“What the fuck? Who are you? How are you here?” Marty asked, the fear beginning to paralyze him.

The girl, dressed in a blue frock dotted with sunflowers, was pointing at him. Her stare sent chills through him. Was this a ghost? He didn’t believe in ghosts, but this was weird.

Marty remembered Marie didn’t want to do it. She didn’t want to fuck him. She wanted to go home. Just one drink, he had said, and then he would drive her home.

He was drunk, and she was being a tease. They’re all teases, these bitches. Of course, she wanted it. Why else would she get into the car with him?

He downed a shot of scotch and, when he put the glass down, noticed the little girl had moved closer.

For a moment, that now familiar fear shot through him. He blinked once, twice, and then a cold realization struck him. This little bitch must have snuck in last night when he brought the now-dead Maria home. Yes. That’s it.

He wondered what to do with her and the body lying on the floor.

In the meantime, his memory returned. It was about 2 AM when they got to his place. They had a few drinks, and he figured he would get a little. When he moved on her, though, she backed off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she asked. “Just because we shared an evening and a few drinks doesn’t mean you’ll get laid.”

Marty laughed at this just before he raised his hand and slapped her. The blow knocked her off the couch.

“How dare you talk to me that way, you bitch!” He exclaimed. “Don’t you know who I am? I get what I want. Always.”

Maria heard none of this. Marty had knocked her out. He sighed at the realization and got a glass of water. He poured it over the unconscious girl until she stirred.

Maria moaned and felt her face. It was hot where she had been struck. She remembered this guy had slapped her. She reached into the pocket of her frock. The feel of the small canister of pepper spray was reassuring.

In the meantime, Marty was pouring another drink.

“Oh, you’re awake. How fucking nice,” he said, handing her a glass of scotch.

Maria knocked it out of his hand and stood up. She managed to dodge the next slap and ran into the kitchen. She was looking for a weapon. Before she had a chance to find one, Marty grabbed her from behind, pulling her hair and making her scream in pain.

“You fucking bitch. Try to run from me,” he said, pinning Maria against the kitchen counter. At the same time, he pulled up her dress with his other hand and began groping her. She screamed again, saying “No” as loud as she could.

Marty was having none of it. He punched her in the face; her nose spurted blood again. At the same time, he kneed her in the stomach, knocking the breath out of her. She fell to the floor, and Marty began kicking her. When he was sure she was unconscious, he pulled her panties down and raped her.

While in the act, Maria woke up, reached out, and raked her nails along his cheek. She forgot the pepper spray.

Marty screamed and reached for one of the knives in the block. He stabbed her again and again until he was sure she was dead. When he was quite sure, he stood up, poured a drink and began cursing Maria. At some point, he fell into bed.

He snapped back to the present when he felt the cold steel of the same knife he used to kill Maria pierce his stomach. The little girl stood in front of him, holding the knife.

“Why did you kill me?” she asked again.

Marty fell to the floor next to Maria.

Several days later, the police, responding to a neighbor’s call, discovered the bodies. There was no evidence indicating anyone else had been in the apartment.

When police did a routine DNA test on the victims, they learned that Marty matched the DNA found on another dead girl. She had been bludgeoned to death. When they submitted to the national database, they discovered he was a suspect in two other murders in a neighboring state. Marty, as it turns out, was a serial killer.

Bobby Lee was an up-and-coming executive at a large ad agency. He had been promoted over his peers several times over the last few years. There was always a party afterward, and tonight was no different.

The ad team was partying at The Junction, and, as they usually did, they closed the place. Bobby Lee wasn’t ready to leave, but the 2 PM closing was mandatory, so he had little choice. They were going to kick them out.

He saw the girl leaning against the bus sign. She was a pretty blonde. Instead of waiting for a bus, he asked if she would like a ride.

Early the next afternoon, Bobby Lee struggled to wake up. When he finally did, he heard a voice deep inside his apartment. It was a high voice. A child’s voice. He squinted his eyes, looking in the direction of the sound. The thunder and driving rain made it difficult to hear.

He stumbled out of bed, noticing the blood on his hands and clothing. He hadn’t bothered to get fully undressed before going to bed. What happened last night?

He saw the silhouette in the far corner of the room. He moved closer and saw it was a little girl. She was wearing a blue frock and was pointing at him. Bobby Lee heard her say,

“Why did you kill me?”

About the Author: Professor Mike is a writer and editor. He also teaches at his local university. He teaches courses that speak to domestic violence.

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