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A Christmas Killing.

Short story By: AmberLibra
Gay and lesbian



No one likes to be left alone at Christmas. A scorned lesbian lover turns to thoughts of murder.....


Submitted:Dec 23, 2011    Reads: 198    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The body lies ripped open upon the bed. Innards have scattered across the message that I left to my lover. My goodbye message, written on the inside cover of the book that I'd bought as a Christmas gift. It is written in ink, black ink, not red. Not red like lovers' Valentine hearts, like cheery Christmas decorations, like red lipsticked lips. Yet it could've been- the pain I felt- it could've been, should've been, written in blood.
I'm a gangster now. Rather, a gangsteress.
This is my secret. I've had to live with it. How I gave my soul away to the darkness that night. Don't tell anyone. Please.

It began on Christmas Eve. A spark, a flame then a sudden murderous fire burning my head and heart.
Helen had called about midday to tell me she would be at my home in about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. I lit a joss stick and some candles then set out fruit, chocolates and a bottle of wine, carefully onto the table. Her presents lay wrapped in silver, green, red and gold paper beneath the small twig of a tree. Without her Christmas would empty, sparse. Christmas is a family time. She is, was, my family.
She was my first. Not my first kiss with a girl but, yes, my first girlfriend. When we met I had a green mohican and I wear baggy combats and hoodies. I haven't always dressed like this. It's just the way I feel right now. I have girls looking at me rather than men. I like that. I work out a lot and have muscular physique. I'm still a woman, though. I'm all woman. I cry. I bleed.
One evening I shaved Helen's head, like mine is now. As her hair grew she died it orange. She soon adopted my style of dress too, combats and hoody. I suppose we were more like sisters, exploring our sexuality. Exploring each other. I'm really into more feminine women. In that way, I'm more like a man.
I'd make love to her. In her fire damaged flat, ten floors up, where it'd all been painted over. There was a picture, leaning large against the wall, bodies writhing in bright orange flames, pink faces, ablaze, distorting and grimacing, reaching out, yet trapped within the canvas. The charred walls had been painted pale yellow, blackened floors covered in a cream carpet, which didn't quite reach the edges of the room.
Only in bed, or in the bath, did she take off her glasses. Her eyes were large and blue. In the night, in the shadows, she was a baby, a super model, an African princess. Only here did I get so close, see her smile or frown, her stained teeth, small nose and light blonde hairs which grew in down, around her chin. The first time we touched there was no thought, no expectation of orgasm. Just exploration, surprise at how delicate her round, white shoulders felt beneath my fingers.
I knew she was leaving. Somehow silently, guiltily, I wanted her to leave. This was too much, too intense. I wanted her to stay, too. I wanted to give up everything to be with her, to live with her in another city. Yet I knew she wasn't really for me. She wasn't right.
We got so high together. She said I was a crystal; that I was dazzling to her, beautiful. We'd suddenly stepped out of a world we knew, a world where we never fitted in and into a secret, new world.
The view across the city showed parks and rows of houses. Miles away there was the old hall on the hill. The sky, the clouds, the sunsets were constant entertainment. At night, the lights turned on and loud Jamaican voices and music could be heard from the noisy pub below.
A door slammed. Bang, bang. Something slammed in the middle of the night. I clung to her, placing my head on her breasts, trying to hide from the eeriness yet being drawn to her eeriness.
The day she gave me the speed I was high, talking, talking. Playing the Donna Summer song, 'State of Independence' over and over, listening to my girl sing. The painting was frightening, looming from one wall. Her friend, Gary, found it in a pub when he was emptying out the slot machines. The picture was in her room but she didn't want it and tried to give it away to anyone who came to her flat. We laughed at the erect penis and intricate pubic-hair brushstrokes of the man in the centre of the frame, his eyes wild, his limbs twisted around the legs and arms of the burning women. Then I came down. Poisoned, afraid, I sat on the floor of her bathroom, wanting to puke, to shit, to rid myself of this potion. She sat on her bed, not saying anything, like it was her that was poisoning me.
Then feeling sadness; looking across the city in the morning knowing that soon she would be leaving and that a big grey hand had come down from the sky that day and taken something away.

She tried to stop me, covering herself with her hand. She told me she was bleeding. I didn't care. I pulled the tampon string, I lapped her blood.
I was greedy. Passionate.
Helen lay on top, her face wet with perspiration. I wanted her. I wanted other women too. This was a secret world where there were no men. No man could ever understand this. I'd stepped through a door and thought that I never wanted to go back. What would happen when she leaves? Surely we could always be together?
She was frightening and deep. She could've been a sweet Chinese woman, an older experienced lady enticing me in. I became lost, abandoned, inside her, obsessed, willing her to touch me, kill me, humiliate me, to bring me to ecstasy until I was moaning, screaming aloud in a voice I didn't recognize and couldn't control.
She was a witch. Ten floors up. When we slept I dreamt that the pane in the window was spinning round and round, whilst something was drawing me, compelling me, to move up, up into the sky, to jump out of the window. I knew that if it all I went wrong, that's what I could do.
When she left, to study, to make new friends, to get away from a past filled with despair, she promised we would be together. We wrote emails, telling each other our feelings and hopes for the future. She was my future.

Love. The scent of incense. A candle's flame. A shadow was thrown onto the wall. A figure in a hooded top. With my newly-shaved head I looked like a boy. Inside. I felt like a boy. I'd spent all my money on her. All the things she had mentioned in casual conversation that she liked, I'd bought and was rearranging around the Christmas tree. Crystal paint to decorate glass, green, blue, turquoise; the Hobbit calender, illustrated, based on the books she loved to read; a white teddy bear, she loved polar bears and her beloved bear, Fred, was becoming frayed with care; some sexy underwear; some books; something purple, purple was her favourite colour; finally, smiling, the lesbian erotica and vibrator. Then, a few other little things to surprise her. I'd planned a vegetarian meal, although I eat meat and can't even cook. Rifling through my cupboards to check where I had put the sprouts, the two types of stuffing, the veggy steaks, the parsnips and potatoes for baking.
I watched TV. Annie singing It's A hard knock life. Tell me about it....we both knew what that meant. An hour passed, two hours. I played power chords on my electric guitar, wondering where she'd got to. I felt nervous. Listening out for a knock on the door. Ok, since she'd started university, a new beginning in a new city, we'd not been getting on so well. We'd had an argument on the phone a couple of nights before. It was like she was making excuses not to come down sooner to see me, she had 'course work'. She'd made new friends at university; one girl who was bisexual. She knew I was jealous. I put on my red gloves. The speedball hung up from the centre of the ceiling span and sprang as I threw an uppercut, a jab, a left hook. Yet, we'd talked for three hours on the phone the night before. I'd said, "I just want us to have a nice Christmas. No arguments. There's no reason why we shouldn't." She said that we'd speak about it on Christmas Eve. She said that she couldn't wait to see my face when I opened my presents on Christmas day. She said...she said...
I had her Christmas card in front of me. This is a new phrase, she wrote, we are lovers, we are friends.
Christmas is the worst time to be alone. This is what she'd told me. The worst time.
I listened to some old tunes. Ice T, Eminem, Westwood on a Saturday night. Smoked some joints. They didn't make me feel any better. It would've been ok if I was in a nice, cosy flat but it's not. It's just a roof over my head, just one step off the streets. It's not a home.
It got dark. My shadow crouched. I stood and began to shadow box.
I won't let her get me down. She can't get me down.
I heard a knock on the door. Turned the music down. No, no one was there. She was getting me down. I called the familiar number yet I got through to the answering service; her slightly hushed, throaty tones, "Hi, I'm either out or in the shower, please leave a message."
Nine pm. It was over between us.
I punched the speedball
Over like clover. Jab, jab, cross. Over like clover. Hook, cross, upper cut. Over like clover.
Her absence fanned the flame inside, the fire within a loveless vacuum. Volatile.
Jab, left cross, right cross. Is this what she wanted? Does she want me to beat her? For me to get drunk and beat her like her last lover, sketchy old Phil. But I am not an alcoholic like him. He used to give her black eyes, knock on her door and threaten to kill her. He started to drink meths and became incontinent, right in front of her, like a useless baby. Like a power thing they had between them.
I wanted to beat her. She was holding this power over me. Knowing.
Knowing I'm waiting, and foolish.
Over like clover. The ball span as I jabbed and crossed.
I want to beat her.
Bewildered, I smoked another joint then another to try and calm my temper. Then, I just didn't care. It was over.
She will not come now.
Eleven pm. I felt stupid. Cross-legged on my bedroom floor. What had I done wrong? The telephone rang. It was her....no, it was Abby. She was spending Christmas with her parents and they were driving her mad. She said she'd been thinking about me a lot recently. I told her that my friend hadn't arrived. Maybe she was getting drunk somewhere, she'd offered. I didn't tell her I was having a lesbian relationship with my friend, or that I was confused and hurting and heartbroken with sudden violent tendencies.
After Abby had hung up I left a message for Helen. And another. And another. Telling her how hurt I was. What a bitch she was. A real fucking bitch for doing this to me.

I blew out the candles. I felt like a girl. A silly girl who'd been let down by her friend. Crying, in bed, crying until my cry was a growl. Christmas Eve and so alone. Where was she? I lay awake in disbelief. It was over, was it? Was it over? Was she out at a party somewhere? Was she going to turn up later and say that she was sorry? I did love her.
What had I done so wrong?
The night passed. I was stretched, taut, ready to snap with frustration, brittle. Who was she with? Had she gone to buy some weed? She could've been arrested.
Why did she do this to me? Why?


I took all the presents from the pathetic tree and ripped the shiny paper open. The spindly tree with its two baubles was supposed to be a joke. Now I was the joke.
The first present meant for my princess was a tiara. I placed it onto my shaved head. My eyes now thuggish, red and bleary. The second present, the lacy underwear. I put it on. Lay on the floor. Hugging the large white teddy bear, a friend for her ancient much-loved bear, Fred. Bitch. I pulled the furry head off the bear and stuffing span, out of control, spilling over the floor. Then I opened the red and gold wrapping. The porn and the black vibrator.
Glossy pages of glossy lipped open-legged women. Bitches. All bitches. The vibrator deep inside. I came and came and came again.

Christmas morning, ten am. I woke, still wearing the camisole and tiara. The headless bear by my side. I was lonely and humiliated.
I decided that I was going to look for her. What was I going to do when I saw her? Beat her? Kill her? Make up with her once I'd heard her husky voice telling me that she's sorry, looking into her wide docile eyes behind her glasses?
I got on my mountain bike and cycled over to Daz's dingy basement flat. He's a seventies biker who makes most of his money buy selling pills to eighteen year old clubbers. This is where she went to buy her hash. In the summer someone had been killed by Daz's, outside the pub, just down the road. People had placed flowers where he died. Died too young and for probably no good reason.They say he was battered by a rival gang.
I peered between the bars on the windows, two men were sitting on a brown, sagging sofa. There were also bars on the door, which one of the men opened. A puppy ran passed me, the men yelled at the dog to come back in and swore at a larger Bull Staffordshire as it sniffed around my feet. I walked in; Daz put out a spliff in the ashtray and shouted at me to close the door. The smoky atmosphere was laden with hostility and paranoia. There was no Christmas tree, no evidence of Christmas at all. Daz said that he had seen Helen the night before. She'd bought some resin, stayed for a few minutes, then disappeared. He said that he doesn't talk to her much now, anyway. "Disappeared?" My voice was questioningly raised in anger, yet my sad eyes were pointing down to the roach-covered floor. Disappeared? I walked off, out of the door then remembered it was Christmas day. "Merry fucking Christmas, by the way". I slammed the door shut.
I went to speed-freak Gary's house. He used to spend all his free-time on the internet, drinking and doing lines. I knocked on his door, called her name. They've known each other for ten years. I opened the door, called again. She could've been in his bed. Gary came down the stairs. Tall, arrogant, skinny with long red hair, tied back. He said that Helen was round his house until four on Christmas Eve, that she phoned me but I didn't answer so she went to see her mother. "Her mum's? I was in, waiting for her. Why didn't she ring again?" He looked down at me, uncaring, pale. Why was he so cold? Why was he covering up for her? "Why didn't she fucking ring me?" He started to close the door and I pushed it back open. "Where is she?!" I screamed.
"I don't know where she is!" he yelled back. He wouldn't give me her mother's telephone number, or listen. Then he got right up close to my face, shouting in my face.
"Fuck you and fuck her. Tell that fucking bitch!" I screamed into his angry expression and he backed away, closing the door. "Fuck you and fuck her," I kicked the door "I'm going to kill that fucking bitch, you hear me?" I punched my fist through one of the small panes of glass in the door. "You tell that bitch!"
I pulled out my hand and stared at the blood pouring from it. "I'll call the police," I heard vaguely from behind the door.
There was blood on the glass. I rode home, red drops seeping onto the ground, my sleeve, my bike. Blood dripped onto my doorstep and smeared across the door handle. I lay, howling, not even human. An animal in pain.

I walked over to Tom and Vicki's, my hand wrapped in a towel. I thought that I may have damaged a nerve. Tom answered the door. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I held up my hand. I would've understood if they'd told me to leave for bringing trouble to their door but they let me in. I bathed the wound, pulling a flap of skin over the deep, mauve gash. They asked me to stay for Christmas dinner.
"In fact you're doing us a favour. There's plenty of food, too much for us to eat," laughed Vicki, in a long, tie-died skirt, carrying over a huge plate of nut roast and vegetables, placing down crackers and glasses of wine. We pulled the crackers and Vicki put the paper crown over her long, black dreadlocks. Tom refused to wear his hat, like last year.
I felt really sad about losing Helen. Tom said that it was typical of her. That she was selfish and out of order. "What star sign are you?" he asked.
They laughed when I told them about putting my hand through Gary's window. Gary is Vicki's ex. Vicki said that he was always putting her down and used to sulk when friends visited her. Beautiful, serene, Vicki offered her hash pipe to me. "What star sign are you?" she asked. We watched TV. I went back to my apartment.

Boxing day. I had a long bath. My hand was stinging. I decided to wear the purple fleece that I'd bought her. I walked in the rain to Dominic's house. He'd recently got out of hospital after his nervous breakdown, when he'd thought that he was God.
Dominic had just been arguing with his dark, spidery girlfriend. I hadn't seen him since the end of summer and he seemed pleased to see me, insisting that I had a fried egg sandwich. He asked me where my girlfriend was. I told him that I didn't know, we were no longer together.
Dominic said that she wasn't really a lesbian; she was on the rebound from Phil. "Oh, she was," I answered, thinking about the times we spent together in bed, and feeling only pain, then suspicion. Thinking about Gary's weasley face screaming into mine. Suspecting that she was with someone else, a man. Dominic said that he was like her, he was a bastard too. I would've protected her from Phil, but not anymore. Dominic showed me the scars on his arm from a fight with a past girlfriend.
"That purple top looks much better on you." He smiled and passed me a joint. He told me about the time he got arrested in Eqypt. He was put in jail for three months, where he thought about his abandoned girlfriend, left lost and wondering around the desert on her own. When he got out he found out that she was sleeping with the owner of a nightclub and having a great time. His girlfriend smiled duskily at him. Dominic gave me one of his coats as it was still raining and almost icily cold; an oversized donkey jacket with a tartan lining.
...My hands in the pockets of the thick, black coat. Harsh rain upon my vulnerable, shorn head, held down, guarding my face from the wind. Always, hold your head slightly down, chin tucked in. Guard yourself from attacks. Only attack if they hit you first.....
I got high. High on drink and smoke and endorphin. I danced alone to my old tunes, cracking open the bottle of wine. Fast punk, guitars, filling up the empty space, trying to blast away the isolation. I needed a dance floor.
The Sky Club was open, not far, good music and casual dress.
I danced to deep house. A black hood up, a can of beer in my hand. Some guy asked me for a cigarette. Spaced out conversation. He was cool. I was cool. End of the night, asking if there are any parties. Someone said no. "That's shit, no parties on Christmas day," I slurred. Someone was laughing, saying that it was Boxing Day. Then back at the flat. I remember thinking that if I stayed in the flat alone I would've wanted to kill myself. I wanted to kill her. Deep depression. Murderous, extreme. Murder or suicide. One or the other. It had to be. It was all the same negative energy.
I walked back to Daz's flat in the roughest, most loveless area of town. I had nowhere else to go. What time was it? Three in the morning?A hostile wind blew around me. Murder. So cold. All the lights were off and the metal bars locked across Daz's door. Murder. A strong bad energy forcing its way through my mind.

A murder spot. Why here, this place of death? Alone. Sitting on a bench outside a pub where a boy had been battered to death by a gang with baseball bats. The pub had closed down after that. All the windows had been boarded up. I screamed up to the sky in a place where a murder was committed and the police never came. Murder. Murder. My scream was a battle cry. A death cry.
.... Blood on my hand. Blood spilled over her. Screaming into the nothingness. Screaming blue murder, like I'd been summoning up demons. Summoning up help.The inverse of what Christmas should be. Screaming. A deep wound cut across my palm ...
....Too late. I'm a gangster now. A gangsteress. The Teddy Bear Killer....


I sat in the place where the young boy died. On the grey, wet concrete. Someone got away with murder here. I could get away with this too. My throat was raw. My face burning with cold, frustration, anger. Help, help, help me. Sobbing on the floor. I lit a cigarette.
A black car with tinted windows rolled up, near the telephone box, opposite. A tall man in a dark suit got out and beckoned to me, standing near the telephone box. I shook my head. He beckoned again. I walked over to him. He was standing in the telephone box with the door open. "What're you doing here?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Just a place to go."
"Do you need anything?" I hesitated. "Do you want any E?" he offered.
"No thanks."
"Anything else?"
"I'll have to kill myself or kill her," I cried.


By the time I'd found her house, the next day, it was getting dark. Dogs growled as I walked through the gate and across the iced mud. Lights were off. I snooped around looking for an open window. Then sat on the doorstep. I could see why she liked living here, it was like being out in the countryside and the stars were so bright. I'd brought one of her presents with me- a large heavy book on astronomy.
I couldn't wait all night. The man who I'd met the night before had given me a lift down and was gone. I was getting cold. I had a train to catch. The lights in the house next door were on, I knocked on the door. A middle-aged man answered, balding, greying with bright blue eyes. I told him that I was waiting for my friend who lived next door.

...We are like sisters. We are lovers, we are friends....

He said that he'd seen her leave earlier with a long haired man. He told me that he had a key to the house, that I could wait for her inside if I wanted to.
I unlocked the door, let myself in.
I had the silver pen that the man in the suit had given me. I decided to write a message in the book, then leave it for her to find. Yet I left behind far more than that. I'd felt jealous, estranged. Jealous and lonely reading the Christmas cards full of friendly wishes from her newfound university friends.

I'd ripped him to shreds. It was easy.

On the journey back I felt tired. Evil and tired. I stared at my reflection in the train window. Evil and alone. I hid beneath my hood. Stared at my reflection in the dark train window. Evil and on the run. It'd taken me a long time to get back from the house to the train station. Running, lost, I'd asked some old man beneath a bridge directions to the train station. He spoke too slow and then he touched my arm. I'd jumped as if I'd been burnt and screamed, "Don't touch me!" I ran off. I got into a taxi. Breathing heavily, sweating. The driver looked at me in the mirror. A scented, cardboard Christmas tree swinging to and fro. He asked me where I was going. He asked me where I was from. "Where am I from? A place called Hell."
He laughed cheerily and said, "Where's that then?"

Just call me the Teddy Bear killer.

I 'd felt jealous and lonely. He was there on the bed as I walked into the bedroom. Someone who she'd known far longer than me. Who she had held in her arms at night, whilst telling me she missed me. Someone who she loved.
I'd killed him. She'd known him all her life. When she was five, she had an operation on her eye, and he did too. When we were in bed, laughing and discovering each other, he was always there. He had a plastic eye and the other, a black, stitched cross. He was careworn and saggy and soft. I'd killed him with the silver pen.
Now, Fred the teddy bear is just a ripped up pile of brown material and sponge.






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