"A Bag for All Bleedings"

"A Bag for All Bleedings” was my failed attempt to make it into the Bludgeon Tools anthology. The story was inspired by the most dangerously deranged woman that I’ve ever encountered. Enjoy!

A Bag for All Bleedings
by Jeremy Thompson

Briiing, briiing.

“Uh…whuh…what time is it?” enquired Kieron, rolling over in bed, making the box spring creak in protest. His wife Sharon, a familiar lump of warm, nightgown-encased flesh, uttered no reply, save for light snoring.

Briiing, briiing.

He checked the clock on the nightstand. Nearly four a.m. From past experience, he knew that nobody called at that hour with glad news to impart. His heart rate quickened. He farted. He sketched a cross in the air.

Briiing, briiing.

“Okay, okay,” he grunted, snatching the phone from its cradle. Forgoing a pleasant greeting, he asked, “Yeah, what is it?”

Then came a voice most familiar: nasally, sculpted of dark insinuations.

“Mr. McGuinness?”

“You know that I am. What do you want this time, Kimmy?” In his mind’s eye she sprouted: a Joe Camelesque countenance framed by rings of ebon hair, tattoos of anime characters spanning her ever-exposed arms and legs.

“It’s Vincent. He’s acting crazy, all aggressive, scaring my son and me half to death. I need you to talk some sense into him. Please, Mr. McGuinness. Help me.”

Kieron sighed with much emphasis, as if the act itself could blow him back to dreamland. “Fine, Kimmy. Put him on the phone.”

A few silent minutes elapsed. Then his only child’s voice filled his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“What’s going on over there? You having some kind of fight?”

“Huh? Fight? Whadda you mean?”

“You’re scaring Kimmy and her son, apparently. Some kind of lover’s spat?”

“Listen, Dad, I was asleep when you called. The sun’s not even up yet. Call me around noon if you have somethin’ to discuss.”

“But I didn’t—”

Too late. Vincent had already hung up on him.

* * *

The next morning, dressed in a coral blue apron emblazoned with the logo of his place of employment, Wettle’s Home Improvement, Kieron lurked in an aisle of piled lumber and composites, awaiting a customer to assist.

Having shrugged the bizarre early hours call off—“Kimmy probably had a nightmare,” his wife, ever optimistic, had asserted over breakfast—he was taken aback when his store manager, Huey Dalton, approached him, his friendly, creased countenance now somber.

“Step into my office for a moment, would you?” he said, more a command than a request.

Bypassing aisles of appliances, bathroom fixtures, tools, and cleaning supplies—all perfectly polished, awaiting their future homes—they entered that space. No art, photos, or diplomas graced its walls. There were only two swivel chairs present, positioned on opposite sides of a Carolina Oak desk.

Atop that desk was a computer monitor. Once they’d each claimed a seat, Mr. Dalton turned it toward Kieron. “Care to explain this?” he enquired with a tone that made Kieron’s heart sink.

The message had been sent to Mr. Dalton’s Wettle’s Home Improvement email address, but clearly addressed Kieron. It read:

Mr. McGuinness,

Your family is out of control. Why don’t you leave me alone? Your son won’t go away, won’t ever leave my apartment, though I’ve broken up with him one thousand and one times. Your wife and you keep harassing me: throwing rocks through my windows, prank calling me all the time. I didn’t do anything wrong. Now I’m afraid for my own son’s life. Please, don’t make me call the police.

Sincerely,
Kimberly Grempt

“What in the actual fuck?” exclaimed Kieron.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Dalton. I didn’t mean to curse in front of you. But, honestly, I have no idea what this girl’s problem is. My son Vincent’s been dating her since last November, and moved in with her just last month, and my wife and I haven’t seen either of them since then. We’ve never called Kimmy even once. She’s called us a few dozen times, though—far more than Vincent has—to check in, she says, but really to complain about my son. ‘He plays video games too much.’ ‘He’s awkward in public.’ Stuff like that. She never mentioned any breakup, though. And as for her broken windows, I know nothing about them.”

“Okay, Kieron. Okay. I’ll let you deal with this matter on your own time, in your own way. At any rate, I shouldn’t be getting your messages. I’ll have to block her email address.”

“Great idea.”

* * *

During his lunch hour, Kieron texted his son, describing the strange email, demanding an explanation. When Vincent finally replied, he wrote: It was just a joke, Dad. Kimmy has a strange sense of humor, that’s all. She sent that shit to your boss by mistake.

I think your girlfriend needs help, Kieron texted back. Why don’t you come back home for a while until she gets it?

No reply.

* * *

Then came the weekend. Saturday passed uneventfully: yardwork Kieron had been putting off, followed by fast food and televised football. The McGuinness’ made unexceptional love and were in bed by ten o’clock.

Sunday was a whole nother matter.

Kieron awoke to hear his wife screaming, “I’m not threatening you! No, you’re the one who’s not making any sense!”

Trailing the sound of her voice, he found Sharon in the kitchen, clad in the fluorescent flannel robe he’d bought her for Christmas. Her free hand tugged at her hair. Tears spilled down her face. A mug of coffee sat on the counter, untouched.

“That’s enough, Kimmy! I’m hanging up now!”

Oh God, Kieron thought. What’s that crazy bitch up to this time?

Sharon slammed the phone into its cradle and began to hyperventilate. Instinctively, Kieron stepped up behind her and began to massage her shoulders. “Want to talk about it, honey?” he asked, feeling more tension in his wife than he’d ever felt previously.

When she’d recovered her breath enough to enunciate, Sharon hissed, “That woman. The things…the horrible things she said to me.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Oh, you have no idea. As soon as I answered the phone, she immediately started spouting off about how she thinks that Vincent’s gone insane. She said, ‘He jerks off to shark shows five times a day and never flushes the toilet when he shits.’ When I told her that I didn’t believe her, she started shrieking that I was harassing her. Then she said…”

“What?”

“She said that you raped her…that you showed up to her apartment when Vincent wasn’t around, pinned her down, and jammed your penis into her ass right in front of her son. She said that you told the boy to keep quiet or he’d ‘be next up for a dicking.’ The trash that comes out of Kimmy’s mouth. I can’t even believe it.”

“That’s disgusting!” Kieron was now quite infuriated. “I’m not even into…you know, and especially not with her.”

In fact, he’d only been alone with Kimmy once, in his living room, back when Vincent had just begun dating her, while his son was in the bathroom and his wife was out shopping. Kimmy had sat beside him on the couch, complemented him on his shorts, and then, without warning, stuck her hand into Kieron’s pocket. “Got any quarters?” she’d asked, failing at a seductive tone. Her demeanor had been so awkwardly fervent that Kieron had leapt to his feet and retreated to his bedroom.

“This behavior can’t continue! I’m calling Vincent right now!”

* * *

Sadly, love had blinded the boy. He claimed that Sharon had misheard Kimmy and, in fact, had provoked her. “We’ll sit down together soon and work this all out,” he said. “We’ll do it in public, at a restaurant or somethin’, so that everybody is on their best behavior. My girl’s really quite nice. You’ll see. She just gets pissed off sometimes. She was picked on in school, apparently. Sometimes she lashes out, just a little.”

“I don’t want that crazy bitch anywhere near me,” Kieron countered.

* * *

Unfortunately, for Kimmy, Kieron’s desires were a thing to be trampled, for he saw her the very next day. There he was, wandering the aisles of Wettle’s Home Improvement—on the hunt for a customer he might assist, so as to justify his salary, when he saw her trailing her fingertips along power drill after power drill. She wore a spaghetti strap top, braless, and jean shorts so skimpy that the lower portions of her ass cheeks were exposed.

With any other woman, Kieron would have paused for a moment to appreciate the view, but the ink on her limbs, depicting large-eyed, spiky-haired cartoon men, was instantly recognizable, and he fled. Sparing Kimmy but one quick over-the-shoulder parting glance, he saw that she had slipped her free hand into her shorts. As if aware of his gaze, she arched her back and began to finger her asshole.

Shocked to find himself trembling, Kieron hid in a restroom stall for the better part of an hour. Seated on a closed toilet lid, he scrolled through his wife’s Facebook timeline, which he hadn’t looked at in months. Sharon wasn’t half as witty as she thought she was, but he’d never admit that to her.

When Kieron finally emerged—to apologize to his boss, claiming that his intestines were in turmoil after a far-too-spicy Indian food dinner—to his relief, he saw that Kimmy had departed. He wondered if she’d purchased anything or had only visited to annoy him.

His lunch hour arrived. Rather than amble over to the across-the-parking-lot Togo’s, as he usually did, Kieron drove to a sports bar and downed a few beers.

* * *

A few days passed without incident. Still, apprehension danced along the edges of Kieron’s psyche. He sensed that machinations were in play and he’d soon be beleaguered, and worried much about Vincent, who often made the wrong choices.

Finally, Friday evening, as his wife busied herself in the kitchen, preparing baked ziti, he settled himself onto a back patio lounge chair and dialed his son up. A breeze chilled his bare arms. Canines barked in the distance. A sunset had arrived to beguile him with vibrant shades of purple, red and orange.

“Hey, Dad, what’s the haps?” Vincent greeted, answering after two rings.

“Oh, nothing much,” said Kieron, as if his temples weren’t throbbing, as if his heart wasn’t jackhammering in his chest. “Your mother’s preparing us dinner, and I thought I’d check in. Are you doing okay? Have you…found a job yet? Has Kimmy?”

“Well, I interviewed at a few places, but you know how it is. Other than that, though, I’m just peachy. In fact, I’m chillin’ in a tent right now, up at the San Onofre Bluffs. I took Dylan camping. Tomorrow, I’m gonna teach him how to surf.”

“Dylan?”

“Yeah. You know, Kimmy’s kid. He got in trouble at school—cheated on a test, or some shit—and Kimmy thought that he might need a man-to-man talk. I’m tryin’ to be a good male role model, you know. Dylan’s dad’s never around. At least the dumb bastard pays child support on time.”

“Don’t talk about my daddy!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice in the background.

“Shut up, ya little dipshit,” Vincent chided.

“So…is Kimmy with you?”

“Nah, Dad. She’s been stressed out lately, and said that she needed some alone time. I left her a bag of good herb, though. She’ll be mellowed out soon enough.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I guess that I’ll let you go then.”

“Cool, cool. Tell Mom that I love her, and I’ll see you guys soon.”

“Take care of yourself, Son.”

* * *

Another Saturday morning found Sharon in her comfy robe and slippers, and Kieron in a Raiders jersey, sweatpants, and sandals, seated at their Colonial Cream granite kitchen counter, enjoying orange juice, toast, omelets, and sleepy small talk. Sharon had recently reconnected with Margie Langstrom, an old high school acquaintance, and would be joining her for lunch later that day. Kieron, once he had the house to himself, planned to barbecue burgers and binge on adult movies.

Then came a discordance, strangely syncopated. “I think that’s my car alarm,” Kieron said, even as his heart dropped.

As he lunged to his feet, his wife grabbed his arm and said nothing. Gently shaking off her grip, he pressed forward. His keys were hanging from a hook near the door and he snatched them, stride unbroken.

There must have been a side of Kieron far more sagacious than he’d suspected, for when he stepped out of his house and beheld his son’s girlfriend, he evinced not an ounce of surprise. “Kimmy,” he said, “what are you doing here?” She stood beside his Kia Sportage, glowering, with her own battered El Camino parked at the curb.

Dressed in the very same outfit she’d sported at Wettle’s Home Improvement, she twitched and she blinked. Her hair had gone awry. The absence of makeup made her many facial sores conspicuous. Apparently, she had purchased something on Monday, for she gripped a reusable shopping bag, coral blue, bearing his store’s logo.

Kieron keyed off the alarm and said, “Didn’t you hear me? I asked you what you’re doing here. You don’t expect to be invited inside, do you? Not after that email you sent…and those terrible things you said to my wife.”

Kimmy attempted to smile and couldn’t quite manage it. Then, suddenly, she was screaming, “Your wife! That evil cunt made my boy lick her bloody tampon! He told me all about it! And as for that piece of shit Vincent, he drugged my mama one night and took naked pictures of her! I’ve seen ’em! No, what are you doing? Let go of me! Help, someone, help!”

“Kimmy, I’m not touching you. We’re like seven feet apart right now.”

“Please, Mr. McGuinness, put that down! I won’t tell the cops how you raped me! Is this why you invited me here, to kill me so I won’t talk?” From her bag she pulled a power drill, a cordless Ryobi. Squeezing its trigger, she brought it to life.

“Hey, come on now, Kimmy. This isn’t funny.”

“Somebody, anybody, call the police! Mr. McGuinness has gone crazy! Oh, fuck! Please, don’t do this! Ow! God, no! Aaie…aaie…aaaaaaaah!” Without further ado, she jammed the drill into her abdomen. Blood sloshed onto her jean shorts as she shredded her intestines, liberating fecal matter and partially digested food. Howling, she collapsed to her knees, then rolled onto her back.

“Sharon, call an ambulance!” Kieron shouted, never taking his eyes off the lunatic. “Kimmy’s here and she’s hurt herself. It looks pretty bad.”

“What? Let me see!” his wife cried, emerging from the house.

“You’d better not! It’s too gruesome! Just do as I say!”

Thrashing in agony, having released her grip on the drill, whose bit was yet lodged within her, Kimmy continued her bizarre spectacle. “No, not the hammer!” she shouted, retrieving one from her bag, along with a most formidable masonry nail.

Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk, but dared not step any closer. All were too shocked and fearful to approach Kimmy, to wrench the tool from her grip and prevent more self-harm. So too was Kieron, though he at least attempted to voice reason.

“Listen, Kimmy,” he said, “you have like a dozen witnesses here now. Everyone can see that I’m not the one hurting you. I don’t know why you’re trying to frame me, but no one will ever believe it. Put the hammer down already, and we’ll get you some help.”

“You killed my sister in the womb! How can you hate me so much?” Somehow, though she shuddered as if in the grip of an earthquake, Kimmy lifted the nail to her eye and hammered it in. Blood and vitreous humor oozed onto her hand. “Stop hurting me!” she shrieked. “You’re a monster! A demon!”

Should I spray her with the hose? Kieron wondered. Will that calm her down a little?

Dipping back into her Wettle’s bag, Kimmy’s gore-coated hands withdrew a bucksaw.

“Somebody needs to stop this woman…now!” wailed Nancy Helgason from next door, making no attempt to do so. A few teenagers had pulled out their iPhones and were filming. Good, thought Kieron, let there be solid evidence.

“You’re not really going to continue this, are you?” he asked, knowing that Kimmy would. Whatever had shattered within her demanded a blood sacrifice.

“I never did anything to you people…why’d you have to destroy me?” were Kimmy’s final words. With both hands, she began to saw through her own neck. Severing both of her carotid arteries, plus her jugular veins, she nearly managed to decapitate herself, before a crimson current carried her life away.

* * *

Kieron heard sirens in the distance, far too late to matter. He heard his neighbors bleating and vomiting, and Sharon sobbing behind him. Never would he learn Kimmy’s motive for committing suicide on his driveway. Never would he be able to comfort his grieving son in any way that truly mattered.

Still, in the moments before the firetrucks, police vehicles, ambulances, and news vans arrived to make him a celebrity, as he lingered in the frigid sunlight, wishing that he had enough time to void his bowels and take a shower, Kieron McGuinness was permitted one last pondering: Did she leave her receipt in the bag? Can I return those tools for store credit?

He began giggling and found that he couldn’t stop.