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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Blood Loss
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“Rita, I’d like to talk to you about Wednesday. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
“I stopped a murderer.” “That isn't, um, that isn't how we see it.” “That's because there's something wrong with the way you see it.” “How should we see it, Rita?” "Differently." She took a breath. "I'd never thought about it- never would have given it a moment's thought- until I heard about it on the radio. Our congresswoman has a problem with the health reform bill, and she was on the radio, talking about how the government's plan would cover abortion. She said we'd all be guilty, parties to the murder of innocent children.” “Rita, how does that relate to John Paulson?” “John was, he'd been our family insurance agent since I was little. He insured my parents when they were alive, got me my first policy when I left home. But he never told us. When you're selling something, you have a a duty- a responsibility- to tell people the truth.” “What was the truth, Rita?” “The truth is, my insurance premiums covered abortions. Maybe if I'd been sick more, if I'd been using as much as I,” she paused, “but I've been blessed with excellent health. I've been sick four times in my life, never needing anything stronger than a blister pack of antibiotics. So all that money I paid, all that money, was available to pay for other women's abortions. He made me into a, made me a murderer- a murderer of children. If only he'd told me...” “I think I understand now, Rita, why you made an appointment with John Paulson, took a knife from your kitchen and slashed his throat. But why did you slit your wrists afterward?” “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. My life was an offense.” “But isn't suicide a sin, Rita?” “I don't deserve to go to heaven. There was blood on my hands before I slit my wrists, blood on my hands before I cut his throat. John might have been the one who splashed it there, but I never asked, I never asked...” |
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