Fever Dream

Charlie had hiked through the high snow some ten miles to the home of Betty and her family. The wind bit at his face and the cold seeped into his bones, but he pressed on. He heard the crunch of his boots on the steps and knocked loudly on the door.

Betty opened it, her face a mix of surprise and concern. “Charlie, what brings you out in this weather? Come in, warm yourself.”

She offered him a coffee and a plate of food, as it was the neighborly thing to do. He declined, his eyes dark and hollow.

“What I’d like for you to do is kill me,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of hope.

Betty’s eyes widened. “No way, will I kill you, Charlie,” she said firmly. “You’re like family to us.”

“That’s why you have to do it,” he insisted. “I don’t trust anyone else to do it right.”

For over a quarter-hour, he begged and pleaded with Betty to end his life. Still, she refused, her heart aching for the man she once knew.

“What do I have to do, attack you?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

“Not even then,” she answered. “I know you—you don’t have the heart to hurt me.”

“Yeah, but I’m desperate,” he said, his eyes pleading.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“Because I want out of this life and into the next,” he half-smiled, a sad, broken expression.

“That is not you,” she said, shaking her head.

But it was too late. Charlie was already advancing on her, knife raised, ready to plunge the blade into her. Betty grabbed at his hand as he drove home the point into her left side, below her breast.

She gasped in pain but didn’t hesitate. With a swift movement, she drew a dagger from the waistband of her dress and drove the needle-like point into him over and over.

He fell back, collapsing on the cabin floor, bleeding from the numerous wounds she had inflicted. He smiled weakly, “Thank you.”

She sat near Charlie’s cooling body throughout the day, waiting for her husband to arrive home, the weight of what she had done settling heavily on her shoulders.