Milk and Honey
James
McIntire
I stare at the work and feel nothing. I should feel
something. Relief. Elation. Sorrow. Hatred. Instead, it is nothing. The job I
set out to do is done. The man sits before me on his throne of filth. Dead from
a punishment that fits his crime. My daughter's murderer is dead, and I feel no
different than before I started this.
Forgive me, you need clarity on the matter. Allow me to
fill in the gaps.
My name. Well, that is not important. Just call me
Professor. I am retired from my local university; I lectured on ancient
history. The irony of my life and my chosen profession is not lost on me. Oh, I
am sorry, that part doesn’t quite make sense yet. You need more details.
Here it is. I am sitting at home one night, alone. My
partner passed many years ago and I never looked for anyone else—just me and my
collection of literature to keep me company in this old home. We adopted a
little girl many years ago who was now far too old to stay here with me. I get
a knock on my door around a quarter till midnight. I will never forget the
time. I put down my book and huff my way to the door. It's the police who ask
me if I am the father of a girl they found. They state the name on the ID found
at the scene. My world shatters. I lost him years ago, my best friend and soulmate.
Now I lost the daughter we raised together. The one thing that still tethered
me to the good things in life. The last element of who I am. Correction, who I
was. I can't speak at first. Her life was cut short. The things she would never
experience and the people she would never meet. She’s gone. I struggle with
these words.
I can only nod when asked further questions. They asked me
if I knew who she was with and where she was going. I have no answers.
Internally, dread and panic are bubbling over like a pot of water on a stove. I
break down. Tears of anger. Tears of sorrow. Both bottomless.
A day or two passes by and I seek out answers. The police
tell me it was the work of a ritualistic killer. I saw his handiwork at the
morgue. My daughter's body was a canvas for his depravities. He took everything
from her. I will go no further with descriptions. What matters is that you know
this man's habits and patterns of behavior. Before my daughter, he had
unleashed his monstrous desires on other daughters. He stalked the university
campus at night looking for new victims. Once a week he would hunt. Once a week
he would defile another innocent soul.
The police gave me their assurances they were doing
everything they could to find this guy. They knew enough that this monster was
a he. There were two eyewitness accounts of an individual seen at the same time
as two other daughters were abducted. I also knew the police had their hands
tied by bureaucracy and paperwork. Their methods may catch this guy somewhere in
the ballpark of three years to a decade. I could not wait that long. The
families of future victims could not wait that long.
Sure enough, like clockwork, another week passes and
another victim is found. This time he got creative. The same knife wounds he
inflicted on my daughter were now given purpose. He had written words on the
flesh. Property, love, and unattainable were just some of the examples. He was
trying to explain himself. We should feel sorry for this monster, much like
Frankenstein's own creation. It wanted something beautiful, but it could only
destroy. I felt nothing for this man. I did not want to understand what made
him tick. I just wanted him stopped.
One night I stopped at the police station and inquired
about the eyewitness accounts. I play it up as wanting to know a description in
case I see something then I could say something. A young attractive officer was
working the desk. His nameplate read Hughes. The desk officer hands me a
sketch. I don't know why that was easier than I thought. Perhaps the officer
could read the pain in my eyes. Maybe he could sympathize. Either way, I had
what I needed as far as looks. I ask if they happen to have a name. He offers
me both first and last. Peter Lucas.
Having struck gold the first two times I decide to ask
other questions. What's his connection to the university? Where does he live?
You know the basics. The officer clammed up around the questions regarding
residence. That was more than okay. I could put the pieces together. There were
contacts around the campus that would give me info. If this man was a student
at any time he would be easy to track down.
Turns out old Pete or Peter was a dropout of the
university. One of my fellow Professors knew the name and the man. My colleague
gave me everything I needed to find this grotesque individual, including the
justification to handle this myself.
He lived nearby in an apartment complex. He moved there
after he had to give up his dorm. Turns out he was kicked out after a report of
an assault on a student. That was the piece of the puzzle that told me
everything. This boy was a walking red flag. He was never taught to keep his
hands to himself. Well, it was now time to call upon old talents. My lecture
would begin. Peter would learn exactly what he needed. There would be no
falling asleep in class.
I wait for him to leave his apartment. I knock him over the
head with a pipe and stuff him into my car. When he wakes he is very excitable.
I pull up a chair and sit face-to-face with my student. He sits in a wooden
chair inside the plexiglass box large enough to fit two people. The box has
thin slits for oxygen. He is naked and chained up from his legs and arms. I
forced his arms to be outstretched. The chains run through holes small enough
to feed the links from the box to the walls. Long story short, I had planned
this out the second I found out someone did this to her. I knew all along what
I wanted. I just needed a name. And now here he is. Naked and scared, much like
his victims.
“What the fuck is this!?” he demands.
"This is your lesson," I say.
“Who the fuck are you!?”
“I am your professor tonight. Do you like history?”
“Let me out of here, old man!”
“Are you familiar with the torture method of scaphism?”
“What is this? Let me go!”
"In ancient times, the Persians called it the boats.
The poor soul sentenced to this method of execution was placed inside a boat
with another one on top. Only their head and limbs were exposed. Then the nasty
part begins. The victim is force-fed milk and honey until he almost wants to
vomit. Then he is coated in both milk and honey. The boat is sent adrift in the
waters with the hot sun beating down. Whoops, I guess this is the nasty part.
The flies and bees begin to swarm, feasting on the poor bastard. But that's not
all though. You see, the victim is kept alive by feeding them milk and honey
each day. And guess what happens to that milk and honey? Yes, that is correct.
You wallow in your own filth attracting other worms and vermin. Now, the final
question, Peter. What do you think is going to happen to you?"
He responds with more profanities. He even tosses in
threats of violence. It's all for nothing. His reign of terror comes to an end.
“You killed her,” I say with a shaky voice.
“What the fuck are you talking about?!”
“Of course you deny it. That’s okay. Starting tonight
you
experience true violence. Violence that will rival your own. You will know what
it feels like. You will understand and you will beg. And I will watch you
wither away.”
He calls me insane and insists he doesn’t know what I
am
talking about. The feeling of her absence rises through me. Flashes of her from
over the years play on a loop in my mind. I know that it is time to end this
monster.
I begin with force-feeding. He tries to refuse at first. I
encourage him with the world's oldest teacher, pain. I take a fillet knife and
slice him between the legs each time he refuses my meal. He picks up what is
happening real quick. He eats his fill never feeling the temptation to spit it
out as he knows I will permanently remove the weapon between his legs.
Once he is fed I give him his bath. I coat him in milk and
honey. Head to toe. He has a sweet aroma that I know won't last. Next, I turn
on the heat lamp I placed above the box. Now it is time for the final step.
You would think acquiring flies and bees would be
difficult. But a quick internet search led me to a site that delivered my tiny
executioners within the time frame I needed them. I carefully unpack the
containers from which they came so none escaped the plexiglass box. The slits
on the sides of the box are small enough to allow airflow without any of them
escaping. Of course, I think none of them want to leave. As evidenced by the
immediate heat-seeking landing of each fly and bee.
He screams out in distress and anguish. He gives me more
threats and profanities. I simply ignore him. I ascend the steps of my basement
and leave the executioners to their work. Death by several days. Death by slow,
agonizing inches.
By day two Peter has already defecated and pissed himself.
I enter the plexiglass box wearing a beekeeper's suit. His previous coat has
congealed. There are spots of crimson fluid in the mixture. I smear more milk
and honey as the flies and bees dance around in the air. Their excitement for
more sweet excess must mirror his own when faced with one of his victims. The
dark mirror casts upon itself. What is inside is brought out. At this point,
his small wounds continue to weep around his body. A mixture of blood and sweet
liquids seems to enhance the buzzing from the insects. He looks tired but I
force him to eat. The threat of the knife in a place he doesn't want to lose
keeps him in check.
By day four he smells beyond awful and some of the insects
have begun to die off. Mostly the bees as they have no place to take up
residence. The flies seem to multiply to replace their number. Hatching into
wriggling maggots eating their fill of honey-covered flesh. The defecation and
its aroma keep them engaged. At this point Peter is unrecognizable. He
resembles an unfinished and grotesque waxwork. I smear a fresh coat of the
sweet stuff all over his devoured body. He is like something out of a George
Romero film. His eyes follow my movements. He no longer begs or threatens. I no
longer need to threaten him to eat; mainly because my buzzing friends had
already set to work on his favorite weapon.
Day five if living death had a scent or flavor Peter
embodies it. He is a corpse smeared in soured milk and pus. Strangely enough,
the maggots have taken up residence in the open wounds of his gnawed frame.
This fills the void left behind by the bees that have all died off. His body is
a tableau of suffering. He is the living representation of public justice. My
only wish is that other people could see this. I wish the world could know.
This is the cost for your savage proclivities.
Two more days go by before Peter expires. The insects had
found their way inside the living corpse and feasted on his insides.
And now here I am. Staring at my work, but not feeling any
different. I ascend the stairs and leave behind the scent and sight of death. I
ponder my next action. I consider turning myself in. With no other family left
I see no other point to remain here in this house. With my work done I still
feel empty inside. As I ponder this new problem, the phone rings. It is a
detective. He tells me they have good news. I feel confused. He tells me they
caught the killer.
"You caught Peter Lucas?" I ask, staring at the
floor beneath my feet.
"No. It wasn't Lucas. It was Hughes at the station. He
worked the desk on the late shift. We conducted an internal operation after we
discovered the eyewitness accounts involving Lucas were falsified. What
happened was one of the victim's friends spotted Hughes talking to her an hour
before the murder. He had been at this the whole time, trying to stay ahead
since he was one of us. But we caught him. We caught the bastard. You can rest
easy knowing your daughter's killer will face justice." I thanked him and
ended the call. I stared at the floorboards feeling anger and something like
disgust welling inside me.
My head was empty of all
thoughts save for flashes of the
thing downstairs. The pus and sweet covered corpse of the wrong man. Dead eyes
staring out at nothing. Just like the purpose of his death. For nothing. How
long did he wait for it to be over, wondering why him? I grip the phone tight
in my hand. I begin to shake as I now feel something. The options run by like a
subway train in my mind. I reluctantly search for the number of the police
station. Maybe they have some milk and honey for my cell.
