Not a Christmas Story, Written over Christmas

He awoke from the dream. Pain bubbled up, dulling conscious thought. Moments passed, as he summoned the concentration needed to open his eyes. Ronnie was there as always, hair the colour of stoked coals, complimenting his ashen complexion. Her hard beautiful face betrayed only traces of concern.

“Bad night?”

“Very.” He tested his breathing. Shallow was okay, anything deeper than a half breath brought lancing pain that set off fireworks at the corner of his vision. It looked as though this would be his best day in quite a while.

Daniel Cyr was dying. He’d been dying his entire life but more-so during the past twelve years. He’d held on as long as he had, through pain that often made him doubt his sanity, for twelve years, three hundred and sixty four days. Today marked the thirteenth year, one for each of his son’s victims.

He’d never been much of a father. The kids’ mother had done most of the parenting while he’d been chained to a desk processing claims for a mid-sized insurance company. He was strictly a weekend parent, and not much of one at that. Still, he had managed to raise a dentist, a lawyer and a serial killer.

Jonathon Devon Cyr, better known as Devon the Devil, had killed twelve young women. Butchered them really, and then forced each successive one to eat part of a prior victim. Countless books had been written about him, examining everything from his past and childhood to determine how an otherwise average middle class teacher could turn to murder and mayhem.

When the police had knocked on Dan’s door that cold October morning over a decade ago to ask if he knew Johnnie’s whereabouts, Dan hadn’t been surprised. He’d always suspected something was wrong with that kid. There was something creepy and off; neither his brother nor sister had ever wanted to spend any time with him. His mother had noticed, but never treated any of the kids different. This led Dan to believe that he *had* to have been the cause.

“How’s the pain so far?” Ronnie asked.

“One click,” he replied, setting down the clicker which with a simple flex of his thumb sent morphine into his system. He limited himself to one click an hour at most, no matter how bad the pain. He didn’t like the way morphine dulled his thoughts, completely opposite to how the agony crystallized them. And he felt that he was due a little agony, to in some small way make up for those twelve young women.

Ronnie’s thin lips were set in a disapproving line. Though they’d never discussed his reasons, she knew why he didn’t click more often. But she knew.

Today was going to be a big day. Twenty-two miles away, in roughly forty minutes, Johnnie would be strapped to a gurney, his arm wiped with antiseptic, and a needle would be inserted. A few moments after that, a fatal cocktail would be coursing through his veins, slowly bringing his heart to a stop.

This would all happen in full view of parents of his victims. Not all of them, Dan was sure, but at least some. He’d gotten to know the families, in an odd way, over the past twenty years. First at the trial, that they’d all attended every day, then through the constant appeals, and then that one final appeal. He’d also come to know them through the interviews and books.

It wasn’t the same as talking to them face to face, but he had come to know them.
After the call came through, the call that would finally signal that his nightmare son’s life was over, Dan planned to give the morphine dispenser ten clicks, and drink his own cocktail, one of lye, arsenic, and the cheap vodka that the tea-totalling Ronnie had tucked beside his bedside.

“Are you going to be okay without me?”

Ronnie nodded. She knew he had to do this, and there was no point in discussing it. She would miss him, but she loved him too much to watch him extend his suffering any longer.

Dan knew that she was too good for him, that he didn’t deserve the kind of love that she had for him. His first wife had loved him too much too, and because of that he’d given into her white picket fantasies of the perfect nuclear family.

That fantasy had ended with twelve dead young women.

Dan and Ronnie passed their last minutes together sitting in a companionable silence, with the occasional dry jab at one another. Though she looked mirthless, Ronnie’s dark eyes would occasionally take on a roguish glint, and her wicked wit would unleash a charm attack that would leave him gasping for air. Then, and only then, was the pain welcome.

The phone rang.

“It’s time.”

Ronnie nodded and rose. They’d agreed that she’d leave the room, so there could be no repercussions. Death was not a right, and helping someone achieve it, regardless of their circumstances was still something most people couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

In fifteen minutes, a combination of morphine, lye, arsenic and cheap vodka claimed Jonathon Devon Cyr’s last victim, a full twenty minutes after the monster himself had slipped loose of the bonds of this life, and descended into hell. Devon’s only question now was whether his father/creator would follow him.

Dan closed his eyes. He slipped gratefully back into the dream.