The 5 Stages of Grief

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Chapter 13, Bethany

“What problem is that?” he’d actually asked.

Just the lingering memory of it, though hours ago, still had her fuming. She couldn’t believe it. After all these years of seeing him, being a part of each other’s life and he had the audacity to ask her a stupid fucking question like that!

“I’ll tell you what the problem is Doctor, or should I say was.” Though her voice was low and sounded calm, she knew he could hear the venom and spit coming with every, carefully prepared word. “That bastard raped me again. Only this time he was even drunker than usual and decided to get creative.”

“You mean your father in law?” he’d asked, his incredulity infuriating her, feeding her swelling tempest.

“Yes my fucking father in law! Who did you expect – Santa Claus, for fuck sakes!” She lost all cool, her temper finally getting the better of her. The funny thing was, she could not remember the last time she’d lost it. She’d always been the quiet-one, the victim, the mouse, for as long as she could remember.

“Calm down Bethany, calm down. It was just a simple question. I only—”

“Don’t you dare – calm down – me, Doctor. A simple question my ass!” If anything, his feeble attempt to soothe her had the opposite effect, she continued, barely taking a breath, practically in hysterics. “Here’s a simple question for you… you… you fucking coward. How’s your asshole today?” She hung-up the phone.

Flashbacks of the conversation had fueled the better part of the clean up. Although not before stomping back up the stairs to where the dead body of that filthy pervert lay and shooting the bastard – now cold and lying in a puddle of blood, piss and excrement – again. The noise had actually surprised her as she hadn’t remembered ever picking up the gun.

That was hours ago. Exactly how many? She had no idea.

After she’d shot her dead father in-law and found the smoking gun in her hand, the next she knew she was sitting, having a drink – straight, with ice – in the TV room with her dead husband. Even so, that was not the real problem. The problem was she had no recollection of how she’d arrived there or who had made her the drink. Regardless, she was extremely grateful for it.

Now, looking about, the sun is going down, it’s last raiment of light disappearing below the neighboring rooftops. She steps to the sill and looks out realizing the task at hand is almost complete – quite amazed she’d not noticed it sooner. Not a single soul, not one of her sympathetic, though condescending neighbors had come to check on her. Not even a phone call. You would’ve thought the gunshots might have attracted some attention, she mused, then poured herself another drink before getting down to the finishing touches of her clean up.

What she would do with her doctor? “The fucking pussy!” the boldness of her words, the vehemence in her voice surprising her. Well, that was a question she would come back to later.

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