A short story

Je Me Souviens

The story of Andrew Gilbert is like any other, he was born in an age of decadence in a city that no longer calls itself a city in Sainte Foy, Quebec; his residence lost somewhere in the wailing wake of jet planes, mass produced fashion and the swelling spine of the Saint Lawrence river. His upbringing wasn’t unlike any other child born of the 1980’s, he had a father, Marc who often lived his life vicariously through the television after coming home from hours from what he so affectionately called “shit shoveling” in the internal affairs department of the royal Canadian mountain police. His mother Karri Desjardins who was a self-described burgeoning feminist who spent most of her time walking around bra-less around downtown Quebec City in flowery dresses counting how many men would stop to undress her with their eyes and stroke her sinuous supple skin. She would then make sure dinner was ready by six, three neat table tactically lain, much like a spider would cocoon its prey before decapitating and draining the blood from open wounds.

Andrew’s family however was not abusive or loveless, actually to be honest the Gilbert-Desjardins had a respectable relationship with one another. Andrew and Marc spent many weekend nights sneaking away from home and travel hours south to Montreal to watch Les Habitants De Montreal skate circles around the Boston Bruins. Andrew loved those circles he used to listen to the sounds of the cold steel slowly fissuring the ice leaving trails of water behind the blade’s edge. He would often fall asleep in the car on the long ride home under the lightly dusted black skies above the Saint Lawrence river while his father sang along badly written 80’s pop music on the radio. Nights like those would be the highlights of Andrew’s life for 20 years.

He never enjoyed peeling limbs off spiders, torturing animals nor did he spend summers laughing while ants slowly were engulfed in fire by corralling the sun into a magnifying glass, he never had strange sexual deviations save for one time a girlfriend asked him to punch her while he “ravaged her body”. Unfortunately she spent the next fourteen days in the hospital with a fractured orbital bone. To be honest Andrew never really thought that he’d be married to a girl who thought a Mai Tai was a personal assistant. By the time he was 24 Andrew had graduated McGill University and was hired by a mid range accounting firm outside of Drummondville a small city of 67,000 a few hours south down the spine of the mighty river Andrew had known all his life. Despite the change in scenery nothing really had changed, He still had a mundane everyday routine and he still spent his weekends sneaking away to Montreal just like he did as a child.

The winters in Drummondville were especially cold, the frost bleed over everything it touched as soon as September began. Although most would dread the first signs of the northeastern winds that would soon sweep through the chasms and valleys, Andrew relished in the fact the skies would soon open up with white ash and blanket everything it touched without prejudice. Not for the beauty of the snow lying on the barren earth, but because it meant he could drink at local dive bars to keep himself warm. Warmth was something that had eluded him for quite sometime he had spent his the last four months alone in his home which still retained the smell of unopened cardboard moving boxes and plastic containers. Andrew considered himself to be a simple man who required little possessions however the loneliness… the loneliness eventually became unbearable. He listlessly raised the glass to his lips and began to imbibe the last of a poorly made White Russian consisting of 1 part milk and 9 parts moonshine grade vodka.

“I think I still can see the corn husk in here Claude.” Andrew stated wincing painfully as the one hundred and something proof milkshake left his esophagus grasping for analogies to describe the pain. “You can still see eh? Well I guess I’m not making it strong enough for you. This one is on me.” The milk stained alcohol slowly filled the glass swirling and folding into itself as it swelled over the lip of the glass and onto Andrew’s.

“Speaking of sight who’s the pretty redhead who has been giving the bedrooms to anyone who will listen?”

“Some piece of work ain’t she? She’s a regular fucking bender Drew, I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick, she’s bad, bad news. ”

“Ah well thank god, I opted out of giving you custody, I think I’ll give it a shot.”

“Better bring one over there too then.”

“Make it two shooters of three wisemen and add it to my tab.”

“Your money is no good here to me, Gilles.” He said as he slid two generously sized shot glasses forward, with a distinct look in his eye that only can be mimicked by mother gazelles allowing their offspring to run directly in the sightlines of cheetahs.

Andrew wasn’t exceptionally good with most women, nor was he proficient at the art of small talk however, tonight was different, tonight didn’t have to be like some other night where Andrew would spend four hours mustering strength to walk over to some busty blonde from the backwoods of Rimousk,i in town from to watch the Voltigeurs and the Oceanic play. He slyly made his way to her side and set the drink next to her hands.

“For you.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m Andrew Gilbert, I saw you looked kind of lonely so I’d thought maybe—“

“You could get in my pants with a drink?”

“U…uh, I just thought you’d—” Andrew stammered searching for a retort

“Like to spend the night looking at your ceiling?” She smirked as she downed the conglomeration of whiskeys and bourbons “Well, I guess you’re cute enough for a Frenchy anyway, I’m Holiday.”

“Nice to meet you Holiday.”

“Et toi Andrew.”

Holiday was not classically beautiful her hair was ragged and unkempt much like some starved art student and fell below her ears and kissed upon her neck gracefully, her skin was attractive and rough with tan from years of sun peering through car windows, burns from jersey cotton bed sheets and unmentionable abuse from men and women. Lips and nose rolled forth from her face softly as accents to her naturally beautiful green eyes that you had to delve for, through the glare of her designer glasses. Their relationship that night began with the taste of bourbon as the air wafted smells of cheap beer and old sweat into their nostrils sending the need for physical sensation into a some sort of feral frenzy lost in the sway of human pheromones. The night was destined to end with the taste of flesh and reproductive satisfaction, fated to go home they made their way to the coat racks and out the front door dying desperately to find their way to his forest green four door luxury sedan, with what was now surely frigid leather seats.

Speeding rapidly racing down crowdless streets tearing showers of snow into the night behind them like cannons leaves gun smoke lingering in the air after burst fire, Holiday sexily unbuttoned his shirt as her hand touched him sensitively along his chest while she whispered half moans and suggestions into his awaiting ears. Her arousal strengthening with the speedometer climbing higher and higher nearing its threshold, ecstasy filled her lungs as he pulled into his garage and tore her from her unoccupied seat, and placed himself in front of her while firmly holding her against the entryway to his house.

They found themselves in a tumultuous whirlwind of falling clothing guttural grunts and groans until he finally threw her upon his bed, as she awaited his weight. Unfortunately he only uttered one word “Wait.” And she did, as he left the room momentarily Holiday closed her eyes still drunk off of sexuality she felt the cold plastic covers on his Andrew’s bed scratch against her hands roughly she turned to look at the sterile room with little and no furniture and suddenly felt cold as there was no electricity surging through the house. Holiday soon became scared and then limp as two surgically silenced nine millimeter bullets pierced the occipital portion of her skull immediately calling a halt of all brain function from running down into her body save for the four or five twitches caused by post-mortem synaptic fire. The blood ran in fissures along the odor proof plastic draped over the bed. He wrapped the sheet over her sinuous curves much like he had before and threw her over his shoulder to carry her into his un-insulated cellar, which during the cold Drummondville winters served as a natural refrigeration device.

Gently placing her body on his work bench he began to do his normal routine, of sharpening all of the surgical equipment before he would make his first four strokes. The sounds of skates crackling the ice could only withhold him for so long as a substitute for the sound of scalpel delving into the softness of human flesh. Andrew smiled as number 30 and her 21 pieces fit into the incinerator along with that night’s clothing. He had to hurry and not savor the victory of this moment. For he had a long drive to Chicoutimi in the morning, adhering to his code, 6 bodies per year discard all belongings then transfer along the river to a new firm who would be just as willing to take him.

No, Andrew Gilbert was not subject to a broken home like most serial killers, he was not abused or disturbed, he didn’t abuse animals, or have strange sexual fantasies. No Andrew Gilbert normal, normal except for the fact he killed people for fun.