62 Words Per Minute

photo by JanXVI.

He closed the door and crossed to the window. He enjoyed watching cars and trolleys passing on Lancaster Street. This view afforded him endless hours of distraction. Distraction from what lay within the rooms of his home. His wife moved from room to room as though to avoid him, as though he pursued her like a murderous stalker, and she fled like Little Red Riding Hood through the woods. Ah, but my sweetheart, you forget; The wolf doesn’t pursue you but plans ahead and lays in wait at grandmother’s house.

She was in the parlor talking with her mother. When his mother-in-law had arrived, he had greeted her and traded pleasantries for a few moments, but he felt his smile strained as he looked at her. The angle of her nose, her upturned mouth, her puffy cheeks formed a caricature of gluttony. He felt his stomach turn. He retired to the den, trying not to listen in on what they spoke about.

“Melissa has applied at Dorchester. Your sister is going places, Kelly. She’s taken that typing course and types 62 words per minute. I timed her, just the other night. Sure, she makes a few mistakes, but who doesn’t?”

Yes, who doesn’t make mistakes, he thought, pacing around the den. Maybe he could take down a book, start to read. He’d read most of them already, except for the garish looking books shelved mainly for appearance rather than content; medical journals, almanacs, a 1932 series of Minnesota state law and the cases of the time. Criminology had been one of his many interests, then profiling killers, then white collar crime, and finally war crimes, until “atrocity” had become one of his favorite words. It was something about the rip these stories would render through the fabric of life, something about the balance of other people’s horrible reality to his own pristine existence that appeased him. But how pristine was his life? A farce, a façade for the lust and violence that coursed through his veins. If they only knew, he thought. If they could only hear his thoughts.