A Shameful Thing

They were looking for me when I came to. I couldn't figure out where I was for a minute there. The crappy green shag carpet I was laying on and the ratty orange bedspread halfway pulled from the bed gave me an 'oh yeah:' Miller's Motel. Everybody called it 'Sinners' 'cause of all the extramarital hanky-panky it was home to. And guess what I was doing there? Give you three and the first two don't count.

My dogs, Maddie and Barf, had come looking for me. I could hear them scratching at the door outside and whimpering. They must have gotten out of their pen and come looking for me when I left home to meet her here. It's always a woman, ain't it? This one was particularly vicious, though.

She had used me to make her boyfriend jealous. It had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, too. She lay in a pool of blood next to me, her head split open like a cantaloupe by the crowbar I was now grasping in my right hand.

I got up, groaning as I did so, feeling pain in places I didn't even know I had. I reached over and felt her body. It was still warm so, I hadn't been out that long. Staggering to my feet, I made my way to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I felt a hell of a lot worse than I looked. The son-of-a-bitch knew his business; he knew where to hit. He had left no discernable marks.

I turned on the cold water and plugged the orange-stained sink. When it had finally filled, I plunged my head into its frigid sanctuary and soaked it there until I couldn't hold my breath any longer. I then pulled my face back up; in a little less pain and slightly more refreshed, grabbed a washcloth from the vanity and soaked it in the water. I rubbed the cool wet cloth along my neck as I leaned on the basin with my left hand and sighed.

"You're supposed to be dead," croaked a voice from behind me.

I turned, wincing in pain as I did so. He lay in the tub with several empty bottles of prescription medications around him and a half-gone liter of water crooked under his arm. His eyes were dull and his skin pallor almost matched the dirty gray of the porcelain beneath him. I bent over and picked up a med bottle.

Phenobarbital. That's right, I thought to myself, she had said he was an epileptic! I counted the bottles, all empty. He'd taken close to 120 of them, probably within the past hour. I said nothing, but walked out, looking for the phone and dialing 911.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" he croaked in a sob..

"Well, I'm not," I spat at him, holding my head and fighting the pounding pain with accompanying nausea. The emergency operator answered and I told her we needed an ambulance and homicide officers here, ASAP.

I then sat down, placing the cold rag on my head again while I listened to the asshole whimpering in the tub and the distant wail of sirens approaching. The dogs outside howled in reply. It was, after all, a small town and I had expected the response to be rather prompt.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," he accused as the sirens got louder, the sound of tires crunching on the gravel outside announcing the arrival of the cavalry.

"I am never ashamed of loving someone," I told him, "Only of hurting them."

The police knocked and then busted the door in. I looked at them and nodded to the body. Then I pointed to my right. "In the bath. Overdose."

The paramedics rushed to the smaller room and I could hear them pulling out equipment as he cried to them.

"He's supposed to be dead! That was my plan! He was supposed to be dead! That's why I killed her and framed him! He's supposed to be dead! The bastard stole my girlfriend, my life! And he's supposed to be dead now, just like her! He's supposed to be dead and suffering in hell for his sins! He should have been ashamed! He stole her love from me…"

I shook my head. He was a lawyer and a preacher and should have known better. I pulled the washrag from my forehead and smiled as my dogs leaned in and began to lick the moisture from my face. I hugged them to me and thought about what he had said. She had loved him, but he had ignored her. She found me and I fell in love with her. We had a beautiful thing going with no strings, no ties. I ruined it by asking her to marry me. I didn't know she had still been seeing him, was still in love with him.

She had used our love to try and bring him back to her. She failed to see where the love really came from! I looked at her form and felt a tear coarse down my cheek. Now she was nothing but worm meat, laying where the cops stood over her, measuring and taking pictures. One of them came over to me.

"Are you OK? Can I talk to you?"

I just nodded and held on to the dogs, fighting the nausea and the pain.

"Do you understand your rights?" I nodded, but he read them to me anyway. "Do you understand your rights?" he asked again after he had finished. I nodded in the affirmative, effectively waiving them.

"What happened here?" he asked, now taking out his notebook and bending down to look at me. "I-," I began, and then blacked out, my last thought being that love is NEVER a shameful thing!