Spring 2012
From the Many Deaths of Eurithia May Jonathan Holin
American Literary
64
When she came back for the third time, Eurithia May began to remember. After it was all said and done, I’d lost track of how many times I had killed her, and I suppose it became sort of like a drug for both of us. On our twentyfourth try I was standing at the top of the stairs with her head pressed between my hands, and I had a funny feeling I should have told her that I cared, but I didn’t, and she knew that. She told me to do it, so I did. I dropped my arms to the brand new sledgehammer propped against the paisley green wallpapered wall, and it felt good as I lifted it, heavy and solid in my grasp. I watched her savor the moment as the metal head arced across my body, and as it came crashing against Eurithia’s skull her eyes bulged in exquisite bliss and her black hair parted for our need. She tumbled down the stairs and every thud sounded like an accomplishment until she landed crumpled beneath the flight, and it was done. I covered
her with a blanket, made sure the doors were locked before I stepped back over her body, turned off the lights and went to bed. In the morning the dust-flecked windows filled the room with a skewed and misty light. Eurithia crawled beneath the covers and curled herself next to me. I turned away from her and asked how it was. She tried to relate what she had seen, but it always sounded like bullshit to me and after a few broken sentences she gave up trying. She lay there staring at the ceiling and part of me hated her for always coming back, for her far away smile and how permanently clean she looked the next day. I thought maybe tonight would be the night that it ended. Maybe she wouldn’t keep coming back. I thought for a second how strange it was that this was even happening. She made a buzzing sound with her tongue. It’s always buzzing there, she told me, and I closed my eyes trying to imagine anything else.