Work Text:
You’re not a killer.
Not in a way that matters, anyway.
You’ve lost patients — plenty of them. You’ve been working as a paediatrics nurse at St. Damien’s Hospital for a while now. You’re bound to lose patients once in a while.
It’s heartbreaking each time, but that’s okay. You’ve learned to cope with it as best as you can. You hold their hand, smile, and offer them whatever they need to feel comfortable as they pass and go wherever it is dead people go. Then when they’re gone, you make sure you stay behind to stand vigil for a few minutes before finally allowing yourself to arrange to take them to the morgue. Then, you’ll go to the bar across the street and have a drink or two to celebrate the life that they had.
It’s a bit disturbing if you really think about it. You’re drinking to the dead souls of children. But it’s your post-death ritual, and it helps you cope.
Sometimes you regret ever taking that nursing degree. You never really wanted to, not until Stanley pushed you to, anyway. You think you’d be much happier if you’d gone for the astrophysics degree instead, At least then you wouldn’t have to see so much death and sadness every time you go to work.
But there are moments when you’re kind of glad that you did.
The human body is fascinating. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed learning all about how your body functions, and then integrating that knowledge into your daily life. You figure an astrophysics degree wouldn’t have really helped with staying healthy or even knowing which products at the store to buy.
You adore your patients, too. That’s another reason you’re glad you went into this career. You get to meet these incredible kids everyday and help take care of them. You’ve always adored children, and it never fails to make you smile when they recover and leave the hospital healthier than they’d been when they arrived. Their little smiles help you more than you could’ve ever imagined.
And now, as you’re gasping for breath, leaned back against a tree, you find yourself more grateful than ever that you took that nursing degree.
Because your husband had followed you out of the cabin with an axe in his hands while dangerously drunk and murderous. You take a moment to thank God for Emma Perkins, because the pocket knife she’d given to you all those years ago finally came in handy.
“You know, just in case anything happens,” she had said.
You had bristled at first. The two of you had been discussing your relationship with Stanley. More accurately, she was pushing for you to explain your most recent bruise while you had been completely silent throughout the entire conversation. Then she’d slid the knife over to you, an uncharacteristically grim expression on her face.
You had been angry, offended and fearful. She was being completely ridiculous. You loved Stanley. He would never hurt you. He never meant to hurt you. But you had taken the knife upon further insistence from your only friend left in the world. You think it’s because even then, you knew.
Just in case.
The biting cold of the melting snow seeping into your jeans jolts you from your thoughts, and your breath stutters as you remember where you are. You adjust your grip on the sticky pocket knife and shuffle a little to press your back against the bark of the tree behind you.
The first thing you notice is the nearly overwhelming quiet. There are no birds chirping or critters snuffling through the snow. It’s like the universe knows that something has happened. Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline coursing through you. It’s hard to tell, with Hatchetfield being the way that it is.
Your eyes flick downward to the shuddering body lying in the snow in front of you. Stanley groans weakly as he grasps at his left thigh, vainly trying to stop the blood gushing from the deep cut. The snow around him is stained red, and it’s slowly spreading towards you. You pull your legs towards your chest when the blood starts to brush against your old pair of Ugg boots.
His breaths are weak and diminished now, small puffs of steam escaping him every time he exhales. His skin is pale and his lips are blue. The blood is starting to slow now, and you briefly wonder how many layers of snow would be stained with the fluid.
“You crazy bitch,” he whispers hoarsely. You don’t hear him.
You slowly get to your feet, clutching the knife tightly in your hand. It’s cold. You should be getting back to the cabin before you catch hypothermia. You shiver when a gust of wind hits you square in the face. Yes, going back to the cabin sounds like a very sound idea.
You bring your hands to your mouth and blow warm air onto them as you start to limp past Stanley. You hear him move, and for a second you’re struck with this deep sense of terror.
Oh, God. Is he somehow superhuman? Is he going to get up and chase you down? Kill you with that rusty, busted axe of his? You should have known that this would happen. You’re so stupid. He’s going to kill you, and no one will ever find your body because nobody even dares enter this part of the woods. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
In your panic to get as far away from him as possible, you trip over your own two feet and fall onto your front with a grunt. The freezing cold bites you as you scramble onto your front and start shuffling away from him.
But he’s still lying there, almost completely still. You quickly realize that he’s just rolled over to watch you, and that you had panicked for nothing.
But even now that you’re armed with this knowledge, you find yourself unable to move as you watch him struggle for breath. His eyes are glazed over now, hands lying limp at his sides instead of clutching at his wound. You sit there for several minutes, just watching him.
You see the exact moment he dies, his body going completely limp as he takes his last breath.
It’s only then that you manage to breathe, inhaling the freezing air and holding it for a few seconds, if only to feel it burn your lungs. When you exhale, it twists into a sob, and for the first time in months, you allow yourself to cry.
You cry, and cry, and cry until there aren’t any more tears left. You’re shaking with the absolute horror of it all. You’ve killed someone today, You’ve killed Stanley, your husband. Your horrible, abusive, violent husband. Your husband, whom you truly believed you had been in love with.
At some point during your sobbing, you barely register a coat being draped over you. A hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and when you look up, you see Emma staring down at the body. Her face is completely blank, though her eyes betray her satisfaction. After a few long moments, she finally turns to meet your gaze. Her lips curl into a gentle smile.
“Hey,” she murmurs, patting your shoulder. “Let’s get outta here.”
“I killed him,” you say, voice cracking with the weight of your emotions. “I killed my husband.”
“Yeah,” she sniffs. “You did.”
Another moment passes, and she bends down to wrap her scarf around you and tug you onto your feet.
“C’mon,” she urges, buttoning your coat. “We gotta get you all clean and warm before you catch a bad case of hypothermia.”
You say nothing and stay rooted to your spot when she tries to pull you away. You can feel her staring at you, but all you can do is stare at Stanley’s unmoving body. His corpse.
“I killed my horrible, abusive husband today,” you say, squinting up at the bright blue sky above you. “Before he could kill me first.”
Emma smiles. “Yeah, You did.”
Then you both share a smile.
“Thank God he made you take that nursing degree, huh?” she jokes, and you laugh loudly. “C’mon, Becks. I don’t wanna have to drag your frozen, boney ass back to the cabin. You’re pretty thin and all, but you and I both know I don’t have the strength to carry a watermelon, so.”
You laugh again and follow her when she grabs your hand and pulls you back to the cabin.
You suppose you’re a killer now. But that’s okay, because for the first time in 15 years, you’re finally free to do whatever you want without worrying about your husband. Ex-husband. Whichever, You don’t really care. You’re going to do your post-death ritual and relax.
You’re finally free.