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Rubbed Out

Lisa Gray

    He’d be dead in a few days. I was glad. I should have disposed of him quickly. Neatly. But I was weak. After all, we’d been together for eighteen years. That’s why I’d tied him up and locked him in the soundproof basement.
    I’ve always been a bit of an ostrich. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. And it didn’t. I put him out of my mind. Latterly he’d been too dominating anyway. He never gave me any space. Always at my back. Watching me. I should have dumped him years ago. But he’d taken over the house. And I hadn’t wanted to leave the house to him. After all the time and effort I’d put into it. And I still was.
    So I forgot about him. Conveniently. I’m not saying he didn’t cross my mind occasionally. Mostly when I was eating. I thought of him. Not. Not eating. Nor drinking. Getting thinner and thinner, paler and paler, wasting away. But then I’d hastily rub out the picture in my mind.
    The dog knew. That’s why she was pawing the door to the basement and giving those pathetic whines. She’d watched me as I’d dragged him down the steep, narrow steps, cursing, his weight nearly sending me hurtling down there too. And she’d watched as I tied him up.
    She’d known I was going to kill him from the beginning. I’d been thinking of what would be the best way and I’d caught her staring at me, her ears cocked up like she could hear my unspoken thoughts, her gaze stern and reproachful. I knew she didn’t approve. I could see I’d have to be more careful with my plans. I took out my mental rubber and wiped out my thoughts. After all, if she couldn’t read them, I needn’t feel guilty.
    It wasn’t that she liked him. And he was none too fond of her. He’d often hit her as she passed him. He was big and overbearing. And she knew it. But she’d just accepted him. He’d been there when she came. He was part of the furniture.
    I should have killed him outright. I could see that now. The dog was going to be a problem. Still there were ways of dealing with that.
    “Stop that!” I said sharply.
    She paused, her frantic scraping stopping dead at the stern voice. She started whimpering.
    “Stay!” I said, turning the key in the door to the basement and slipping through without her.
    I descended the steep steps slowly, uncertain of what I would find at the bottom. I turned on the light. He was still where I’d left him but he looked different. Still big, still overbearing even spread-eagled on the floor. But paler. Thinner. Weaker. I guess no food or water can do that to you. I almost felt sorry for him. But I couldn’t let sentiment get in the way.
    I felt him watching me as I tied the ropes tighter around him. I was taking no chances. A few more days should do it. And then I could dispose of him.
    And the dog.
    I hadn’t planned on that. But there was no alternative. I’d made too many mistakes already.
    I climbed back up the stone steps that led from the basement to the house, opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. The dog was cowering under the clothes horse.
    She knows, I thought. She can read thoughts, even from the basement.
    “Stupid dog!” I said.
    I had an idea. I pictured myself in the basement untying his ropes and setting him free. It seemed to work. The dog’s head appeared slowly, tentatively, from under the clothes-horse. She inched forward, sniffing the air suspiciously. I grabbed her.
    “Got you!” I shouted.
    She wasn’t like him. She cried all the time I was doing it. But I was cold like stone.
    One down, one to go, I thought, on my return.
    The house was eerily silent. A couple of times I thought I heard her bark and once I caught a glimpse of a faint shadow as if she passed by but then I remembered.
    I took my mental rubber and wiped out all thought of her.
    I looked towards the basement door.
    A few more days and it would all be over. I just needed to hang on.
    And hope he didn’t.
    The food he could do without. But the water. None of us can exist without that, can we?
    I started pulling the carpet away from the wall and began rolling it up. I’d put him him in there once he was dead. Then I wouldn’t have to look at him. And he’d be easily carried out. I’d thought about cutting him up. It would be easier to dispose of him that way but I hadn’t the stomach for it. No, I’d stick to my original plan.
    I didn’t sleep well over the next few days. Upstairs was quiet without the dog and downstairs? I began to picture his last moments before he expired. I hastily took my mental rubber and rubbed the scene out. It was too painful.
    It had been long enough.
    He had to be dead, I thought, as I descended the basement steps one night a few days later.
    And he was. At last.
    I unrolled the carpet which was lying there and dragged him on to it, not looking at him then I rolled the carpet up again. I tried to lift the carpet on to my shoulder but he weighed a ton. I hadn’t reckoned on that.
    I’ll drag it up the steps, I thought.
    I had to get him outside.
    But I was weak. Always have been.
    There was only one alternative. I’d have to get help. There was no other way. But it would have to wait till morning.
    “This the carpet you want disposed of?” said one of the big, burly guys who had arrived, in response to my call the following morning.
    “I can do it myself if you’ll just lift it into the boot of my car,” I said, hastily, looking at the well-tied up carpet.
    I was safe. There was no chance of it unrolling.
    “Just as well. We’re limited in what we can dispose of,” he said. “Leave it to us.”
    And I did. I was that confident.
    I waited at the car. They didn’t appear. Where were they? I started to get nervous.
    I descended the steps to the basement. They were standing there, the unrolled carpet in front of them, shocked looks on their faces.
    “What the hell’s this?” one of them said.
    “You had no business unrolling the carpet,” I shouted.
    “Bloody good job we did!” said the other one.
    “I wanted rid of him,” I blurted out.
    “We can see that, dearie, but there’s other ways to go about it.”
    “It would have been all right if you hadn’t unrolled the carpet,” I said. “Why did you do that?”
    “We need to cut them up nowadays and put them in the bin. Just as well, eh?”
    The other one nodded. He looked at me.
    “Fred’s called the firm. They should be along any moment now.”
    They arrived almost instantly.
    “Fine, big brute of a fellow, wasn’t he?” said Fred, looking at the unrolled carpet which the firm had dragged outside.
    He spoke to me through the car window.
    “I can’t imagine why you wanted to do away with him.”
    “He just got in the way,” I said.
    “Well, you’ll be out of the way, now,” said Fred.
    “Yes, I will,” I replied.
    All because I was weak. And now I would have to be strong.
    I watched the men enter my house. I could see they were doing a thorough job. A few hours and it would all be over.
    The new carpet would be laid.
    Just as well I’d taken the dog to the kennels. She’d never have stood the upheaval.
    I got out of the car. I couldn’t spend the next three hours there. Besides there was work to be done. I picked him up gently off the ground and tried to avoid looking at him. He’d been with me for eighteen years. It was going to be hard. But it had to be done. He’d outgrown the house. I knew he would have to go. Ordering the new carpet had only confirmed that. If only I’d been strong in the beginning. I could have avoided this moment.
    I snapped his stem.
    The once proud rubber plant hung limply, broken in two.
    At least he’s dead, I thought. He’ll never know what happened to him.
    I opened the dustbin and stuffed him inside.
    I’ve always been a bit of an ostrich. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. I mentally rubbed out the picture of the pitiful rubber plant in his dark upright coffin.
    I couldn’t let him take over the house. Not after all the time and effort I was putting into it.

 

First published in “The Storyteller” in the October/November December 2014 edition.

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