The night Tim choked my Angel, I got a call from the local hospital as I watched Seraphina. She had been calm, watching a movie, and Desmond, one of my patients, needed me. He had a public episode and was admitted to the psychiatric ward. Every time I have to leave her, I struggle; I hate losing the precious time devoted to her. But that day, leaving Seraphina alone was harder than ever.
I had no choice.
The local psychiatric unit is a disaster, and despite the sometimes immoral nature of my actions, I care that Desmond isn’t set back months’ worth of progress because of some over-eager assholes who like Haldol too much.
It only took me a few hours to get him into a private facility that would honor my wishes, but by the time I left, it was well past two, and I was exhausted. I drove past Seraphina’s home only to check and make sure that she was okay. Sleeping in my own bed would be imperative to recharge after a week of sleeping under her mattress and the mental gymnastics I’d just gone through.
Except when I got there, I was shocked to find Tim’s truck. Assuming she was safe, I went home. I don’t like being wrong, and I despise when others touch what belongs to me.
Seraphina walked into my office, nervous and off. Her lack of eye contact was evasive rather than shy, making me suspicious but willing to be patient. When she wouldn’t meet my eye, I thought they had sex, but it didn’t take long to learn that wasn’t the case.
How fucking dare Tim touch what doesn’t belong to him, marry someone who doesn’t belong to him, and then choke her as if she’s trash and not the most beautiful of angels? The audacity of his actions stuns me more than the violence in them.
Heading back to my desk, I pull up the folder on my phone devoted to Seraphina, and by default, Tim. I’ve learned a considerable amount about them, including Tim’s client list. He keeps busy, which I appreciate on multiple levels. I can attack on multiple fronts since he doesn’t spend much time with Seraphina.
I take my time reviewing the clients he’s seen this week, and then check their addresses against maps to find the perfect property. There’s really only one that works, but damn if it’s not perfect. I pull up the property records and find the owner; a picture and his home phone number are easy enough to find. When no one answers, it’s decided. John Dades is about to be very unhappy with his lawn care.
I clear my throat and adjust my voice until I sound unrecognizable. The phone rings a few times before Tim picks up. I’m full of shit as I ramble about his piss-poor work and how dissatisfied I am. From the well-kept records, I know he’s only worked for Mr. Dades twice, so if I don’t sound like him, he hasn’t noticed. Within a few minutes, he’s agreed to meet “me” at the house and fix the issues. I’ll give it to the prick, he’s likable and good at diffusing tension. But that strengthens the question, why hurt Seraphina when he could leave her?
The answer is simple. The good Christian boy enjoys her pain.
Traffic is tight this time of day, and I do my best to hurry across town to where I directed Tim. His truck is parked on the curb, overflowing with equipment. The faded logo on the side reads “Decker and Son.” My research showed he worked for his father’s company, but I’m not sure why Tim still has the truck. The question of how they afford their house still hangs in the air. I will find out why the numbers don’t add up in their household.
The Victorian house has an even creepier vibe than most, and I can guess from the neglect of the structure that Tim spent a lot of time here trying to make the property look this nice. Parking across the street gives me a good opportunity to observe the path to the house. Tim stands with his phone to his ear and his back to the front door.
He’s got a fist in his blonde hair like he might rip it out, and his cheeks are burning red. He’s realized no one is home, just as I hoped, and he’s pissed.
“You’re not going to fucking dick me around!” he shouts, and I shake my head in amusement.
An outdoor event must be planned because the house looks uninhabited, though the yard is spectacular. The topiaries are even-shaped, and the bushes and flowers are trimmed to perfection. It’s not a stretch to imagine his frustration at being told his work is substandard when he knows he’s done an excellent job. But that’s nothing compared to being a small woman with an overgrown bully’s hand around your throat.
The traffic interrupted my plans. I intended to arrive before Tim and lay in wait, but that’s not an option now. I watch him for a few minutes, trying to decide on the best course of action. He’s called the same number three times since I’ve been here, but the call back I gave him was fake.
When Tim finally gives up and returns to his car, I act on impulse and stride up behind him, glad the speed of his reflex works in my favor. He has no time to glance over his shoulder before I wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze, shoving him to the ground beside his truck. The street is empty. Noise from the highway floats in, but other than that, the only sound is Tim’s gurgled attempts to breathe.
Stronger than I expect, he does his best to fight me. Too bad for him, my thoughts are devoted to hanging on and keeping him as silent as possible, ceasing all his grunting and kicking of the pavement. Well-versed in the right and wrong ways to choke a person, I squeeze until he loses consciousness. He’s not dead, but he won’t be out for more than thirty seconds.
“I like choking women too, Tim. The only difference is when I do it, they ask me to.”
I check his right hand, the one he choked Sera with, stretch it out, and make sure it’s where I want it. Then, stepping over him and into the cab of his truck, I turn the key and throw it in reverse, pinning Tim’s offending hand beneath his vehicle. A wet fleshy snap fills the air, followed by a brief yet chilling silence. Climbing over the center console, I exit through the passenger door. His frantic screams fill the air, and I whistle to myself as a cheek-aching grin splits my face.
It’s safe to assume that he won’t have any clue who did this when he finally gets free, but one can hope the message will be clear. I’ll do worse to you than you do to her.
Climbing into my car, I delete the video footage from the homeowner’s security app with my own dark web app. Tim is still screaming, and I can’t help but think he will be at it for a while. So far, no one on this spaced-out and sparsely inhabited block has heard him.
Driving back to their house, I feel much better than I did before, but the knowledge that he hurt her still sits heavy on me. I want to wrap her in my arms again, kiss each one of her bruises, fuck her senseless, and then leave bruises of my own. Ones she’d beg for, and even if Seraphina didn’t like pain, I’d suck hickies into her neck like a teenager to see the way her skin looked marked by me.
The lights are on in her bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room, and it takes me a minute to figure out she’s in front of the TV eating her dinner. She looks nervous, as if she’s afraid to get caught, and I long to ask her what she’s thinking.
She doesn’t hear from the police until the wee hours of the morning, and I regret my actions a little when she gasps and repeats, “Five hours?” Not because I think what I did to Tim was too harsh, but because I hate her concern for him, the apparent love behind it. I will never hurt her, but I resent the fuck out of her as I understand the depth of her care for Tim. How, after everything, can she cry and run to his aid?
I stay in their house for hours after she leaves, looking at everything and anything, thinking hard about handling things and the right way to get our lives on track. Tempted to piss on their belongings to mark my territory, and that’s when I know I’m losing it and need to go home.
With no sleep and feeling like a zombie, I drag myself into the office. I open my date book and cross out my appointment with Tim for this afternoon. I doubt he’ll make it in due to his little accident.
Crushing the flirtatious post-it Tasha left on my desk, I watch the way the muscles and tendons move in my hand; ways that Tim’s hand will likely never move again. I’m curious to see how he’s feeling about that and whether the lesson about touching what belongs to me has sunk in.
