46
What was perhaps Jane Fielding’s last tear for her departed friend, escaped from her left eye as she walked along the quiet pavement towards her house. It was 01:06am, and she had been at her friend’s house who had basically offered her emotional support, someone to talk to, someone to whom she could confide in. Stuart had once been the object of her affection, but her inhibitions had prevented her from making her feelings known. She had never told anybody that she had a burning candle for him. She couldn’t even bring herself to do that. She had hoped that by being around him, getting to know him better, he would eventually ask her out, but now he never would.
So other than Stuart’s kith and kin, she had been the most emotional, and had needed somebody to turn to. She had felt that she was outstaying her welcome, and rejected the offer to stay the night. Instead, she had decided to walk home through the deserted streets, to her parent’s council house, sandwiched between identical houses in identical roads. There was no gate, just a front step between the front door and pavement. She fumbled to get her keys out, and eventually let herself in. She closed the door quietly. Her parent’s would be fast asleep.
For some reason she could never understand, they always went to bed early. After five minutes, she was settled in front of the television, a steaming mug of cocoa curling steam in front of her face which was bathed in changing colours from the programme. It was the only form of light. She didn’t know why she had put it on. She wasn’t exactly watching it. There were two women arguing. It looked like a late night chat show. She had muted the sound.
After a few more minutes, her eyelids started to feel heavy, and tiredness began to tighten its unrelenting grip on her consciousness. Her eyes kept opening and closing for longer and longer seconds. She didn’t jolt when the front door banged. She did the second time. The third time, the door burst open and she never had time to look around as a large, overweight woman with straggly black hair, wearing a towelling robe strode in and looked at Jane who blinked up at her, trying to comprehend what had happened. She was not back to full consciousness.
“Are you Jane Fielding?” the woman asked, quite courteous.
“What?” asked Jane, sitting up straight. She was almost at full awareness.
“Are you Jane Fielding?” The intruder looked to be in her early fifties.
“Yes…who…are you?” A glint caught her eye, and she saw that the trespasser was holding a meat cleaver. The woman stepped directly in front of Jane, who squinted up at her.
Fear was a split-second away, as was full consciousness, then suddenly, a pain caught her on the cheek. The meat cleaver wedged into her jaw, splitting two of her teeth. A sharp tug wrenched it out, but before a scream left Jane’s mouth, her cheek-bone was cracked. The woman hacked away at Jane’s face and neck with a powerful, driving force. A scream tore from her throat, but the woman seemed not to notice. Instead, she gripped Jane’s hair in a strong grasp, and chopped at her neck. The woman’s face became soaked in crimson. It reflected the kaleidoscopic colours from the television. She could not scream anymore, but the woman continued to hack away, and when the cleaver wedged into her spine, she wrenched it free and stood there for a few moments staring down at her.
Satisfied, she stood up straight, and as she stepped across to the living room entrance, the hallway light came on. She walked out and saw a man and woman descending the stairs. A balding man with a bushy grey moustache, wearing a dressing gown stopped.
“What’s going on?” he asked. The woman pointed back towards the living room.
“I’ve just killed Jane,” she said, as though it was perfectly normal.
“She’s dead”. She then walked out.
“Who was that?” asked Jane’s mother. Mr Fielding shrugged.
“No idea,” he said.
The woman had almost walked a mile in her bare feet. The meat cleaver still dripped blood. She was three miles from home, so had decided to take a short cut across a field where Sunday league football was played. The grass was cold beneath her feet, and when she reached a goal mouth area, the ground had changed into congealed mud, and she stopped.
The orange glow of the town around her blended into an ultramarine sky, dotted with stars. She was surrounded by darkness, and looked down at the cleaver in her right hand. She couldn’t see it. Not even when she sent it into her neck. She hacked away, tearing a vicious rent, blood pumping out, splashing onto the mud. Even as she began to become light-headed, and weak, she still tried to lift the cleaver, but eventually couldn’t. It dropped to the ground, and she followed two seconds later.