The Weight of a Guilty Heart

Nightmares are the price I pay for my deeds. Every sweet vision and tender dream is laid to waste, twisted by the powers that be into landscapes of torment and portraits of guilt. That night, they were something like a badger, something like a lizard, and something like a corkscrew. I swear I'll never read Lewis Carrol before bed again. Straight out of Through the Looking Glass they came. Three of them, my personal Furies called Conscience, perhaps, roused me from my most favored of dreams. Yes, that kind of dream. Hot and musky, was the vision. I was loath to part with it.

I ran from them as if my very existence depended upon it. It didn't help me to escape them. Running never does. They brought me to bay soon enough, my body battered and helpless upon a blasted plane of broken glass. As one, they reared up before me, a range of twisted mountains. The mome raths were enormous now, godlike in aspect and terrible to behold. As if it had been waiting for some unseen signal from these harbingers of retribution and finally received it, the ground beneath me gave way with a crash akin to thunder, my guilt a weight to heavy for it to bear. Civilizations were born and died as I fell through that timeless instant. The Furies retreated into an unimaginable distance now that their task was complete. I fell and fell and fell, tumbling through a void as dark as death and probably a few degrees cooler, besides. Suddenly, I was...elsewhere.

Upon seeing the landscape resolve into an all too familiar park, a part of me screamed in silence, knowing what horror must come next. Try as I might to assert control, it was to no avail. I was here in this memory as an observer only, a mere passenger trapped within my own vessel of flesh. The memory played, a vhs loaded and paused, waiting only for the arrival of the guest of honor...

I snuffed the remains of the day's first cigarette, crushing it under the heel of my boot, and pondered my situation. How does one hide a body in broad daylight? More lines from Jabberwocky mocked me in a whispered chorus as I lay in wait.

Beware the Jabberwock my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!"

My still ambulatory corpse-to-be sat on a park bench, alone and oblivious to his impending demise. Someone should have taken the time to warn him about the bad things that could happen out here. On second thought, that would have made my part in this harder than it already was. So much for being a good Samaritan.

I needed a plan. There were several options available to me, but none seemed likely to allow me an easy escape. A small pond sat across the way, only a few hundred yards east of my current hiding place. Unfortunately, the way to it crossed several paths frequented by joggers. I had no real desire to answer a lot of awkward questions just then. Many of them involving an abruptly bloody body and an equally bloody knife. Most perplexing, indeed. I required a nice, quiet place to work, and my window of opportunity was small. His death had to occur before noon. By my watch it was nearly eleven o'clock. I fingered the edge of my obsidian blade, a gift from Grandfather, and mentally went through the motions of evisceration, bringing the appropriate spells and charms to mind as I did so, another gift from the Old Man.

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, and stood a while in thought

I felt the now familiar butterflies of uncertainty racing one another through my innards. A couple of dramamine tabs kept them on the inside track where they belonged. Sicking up during one's first kill is just bad form. Don't get me wrong. No matter how hard I try to play it off, I'm just not emotionally cut out to be a killer.

"A pederast's heart. Evil to trap evil. The bastard deserves what he gets." I hoped that saying it would help support the shaky moral ground I stood upon, but the words rang hollow and empty in my ears.

"A pederast's heart," I repeated. Look it up in a dictionary like I did if you don't know what it means. Maybe you can decide if his death was justified. I can't.

My target shifted his weight while feeding breadcrumbs to some rather affectionate ducks. Their asthmatic quacking further distracted me from my purpose. I almost missed my cue when he stood and stretched. His supply of duck chow now exhausted, he started walking away. I was still no closer to a solution and my mobile meat wagon was escaping me. I had to do something.

And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

I moved to intercept, sticking to shadows and cutting through the woodlots, not knowing exactly where my path would take me. To keep from getting lost, I reviewed my mental map of the park as I slinked along. If I were fast enough, I'd be able to take him at a switchback in the trail without drawing too much attention. I gave up stealth in favor of speed, sprinting through the underbrush, palming that wicked black glass blade as I did so. I made it to the edge of the woodlot in a time that an olympic runner would have been proud of, but quickly plunged back into the bushes as my prey rounded the corner.

Those last minutes of waiting made my stomach roll and turn, a turboprop flying through a turbulent storm. Thankfully the dramamine kept my stomach safely under wraps while I endured those final moments before the deed. I crouched behind my shrubbery, being as silent as I could, tensely awaiting his approach. Gathering myself to strike as he came along side my place of concealment, I flew from the underbrush, ebon blade brandished before me, and a spell upon my lips to keep the blood from my clothing and person. He turned to face me, dumbfounded and amazed, as I hit him with my full weight. We tumbled into the brush on the other side of the trail just as a jogger rounded the bend. I hoped he didn't see us, but I couldn't be sure. Once concealed by the obliging flora, a few muttered Words and a few well placed slashes from my sharp, sharp knife, allowed the first part of my grisly task to come to an end.

One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack

Once the deed was done, I went silent again, listening intently for the jogger. I was nearly certain he'd passed me by, but I needed to reassure myself. I peered through the underbrush to see the jogger's retreating backside, his easy pace belied his ignorance. He'd get to live another day. One body was enough, thank you very much. It doesn't pay to be greedy you know.

I returned to my now less than mobile playmate. I franticly went to work, gathering certain choice bits from him and placing them into some plastic baggies I'd brought along expressly for the purpose. I almost felt sorry for the coroner who'd have to examine this body. It wouldn't be an easy task to explain how a heart was removed from a human torso without first opening the ribcage, and never mind the lack of mess that should have accompanied the act. They didn't have Grandfather's notes to tell them it really was possible. Heh, even if they did, It's not like they'd believe it, anyway. With a pederast's heart and Grandfather's grimoires both firmly in my possession, I could finally set a trap for that fleshbound demon that called itself Mr. Vincent. He wouldn't escape me again.

He left it dead and with its head, He went gallumphing back.

After cleaning my knife on the carrion's clothes, I placed my collection of baggies and the blade into my purse, adjusted my skirt and as calmly as I could, headed home from the park.

"And has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms my beamish boy! Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

That accursed poem still echoed through the vaults of my subconscious when I awoke, drenched in sweat, my voice hoarse from screaming. Somehow, if Grandfather were still alive, he'd tell me I did the right thing. I'm not sure I'd believe him.