Coming of Age
by Rae Toonery
I always wondered what it would be like to do it. Long before true crime was in vogue, I was always a little in awe of the Geins and Gacies of this world. But I never thought I could go through with it. It was a fantasy; one that, for all I knew, everybody harbored somewhere deep inside themselves.
When I was looking after Mum, I came close a few times, I can tell you. And I defy any full-time career to deny it hasn’t crossed their mind at some point.
But that opportunity was taken from me by dear old Natural Causes. You get to a point in life, don’t you, where you must accept that certain things have passed you by.
Then Covid came along. The way the papers talked you’d think I would have been quaking in my slippers. They had you believing everyone over seventy was flimsy as a single use face mask. But Covid was my accomplice, my cover, the only truly living thing among the walking-frame dead. I was never going to embrace armchair gymnastics or join the jigsaw jamboree.
The first time, I have to admit, was pretty amateur and absolutely nothing to write home about. She was sitting in her room, with the door wide open, choking on that that now familiar Covid cough. Music to my ears. She went down like a baby after a breastful of the white stuff. You’re probably imagining the old pillow over the face routine, but that’s just your squeamish sentiment. You don’t want to look death in the face—I understand.
When you’re young, you imagine the reaper slashing at you, with his scythe fresh off the whetstone. By my time of life, he’s lost his edge; your fears age with you. Sometimes I catch him with his trousers down. Not a pretty sight. He forgot where he left his scythe years ago, now he’s armed with a feeble butter knife. A butter knife will do the job, of course; you wouldn’t leave one lying around a murderer’s cell would you? Actually. I’d rather be scythed—get it over with in one quick slice.
At first, I tried to make it quick, but I learned to savor the moment. Like Frank Howell. They’d put the little cross on his door, so I knew they’d be giving him a wide berth. He was sat by the window, wheezing away, barely managing to mist the pane. He’d fallen forward, so his chin was almost on the ledge.
I don’t know what came over me, but I was taken right back to the rugby scrums of my youth. I tucked his head under my right arm and stood upright, palm clamped over his wizened mush. I could feel him trying to force a desperate prayer through his gritted gums. While I held him there, I took his limp wrist in my left hand and placed my fingers on his weakening pulse. Even after the last faint tap, I counted to ten, just in case. There’s no feeling like it. Empowering—there’s a word that’s overused these days.
But honestly, I had to stop myself tearing his bonce right off his scrawny little neck, running with it through the main corridor, and scoring a touch-down in the staff room. I had to keep checking the mirror to make sure I hadn’t done a Benjamin Button.
Seventeen I managed. Before they stuck me in here by myself. I’ve made no demands, despite the lack of access to fresh air, limited literary choices, and menu, which is quite frankly in very poor taste.
All I’ve asked for is a cellmate. Hardly an unreasonable request, is it?
When I was looking after Mum, I came close a few times, I can tell you. And I defy any full-time career to deny it hasn’t crossed their mind at some point.
But that opportunity was taken from me by dear old Natural Causes. You get to a point in life, don’t you, where you must accept that certain things have passed you by.
Then Covid came along. The way the papers talked you’d think I would have been quaking in my slippers. They had you believing everyone over seventy was flimsy as a single use face mask. But Covid was my accomplice, my cover, the only truly living thing among the walking-frame dead. I was never going to embrace armchair gymnastics or join the jigsaw jamboree.
The first time, I have to admit, was pretty amateur and absolutely nothing to write home about. She was sitting in her room, with the door wide open, choking on that that now familiar Covid cough. Music to my ears. She went down like a baby after a breastful of the white stuff. You’re probably imagining the old pillow over the face routine, but that’s just your squeamish sentiment. You don’t want to look death in the face—I understand.
When you’re young, you imagine the reaper slashing at you, with his scythe fresh off the whetstone. By my time of life, he’s lost his edge; your fears age with you. Sometimes I catch him with his trousers down. Not a pretty sight. He forgot where he left his scythe years ago, now he’s armed with a feeble butter knife. A butter knife will do the job, of course; you wouldn’t leave one lying around a murderer’s cell would you? Actually. I’d rather be scythed—get it over with in one quick slice.
At first, I tried to make it quick, but I learned to savor the moment. Like Frank Howell. They’d put the little cross on his door, so I knew they’d be giving him a wide berth. He was sat by the window, wheezing away, barely managing to mist the pane. He’d fallen forward, so his chin was almost on the ledge.
I don’t know what came over me, but I was taken right back to the rugby scrums of my youth. I tucked his head under my right arm and stood upright, palm clamped over his wizened mush. I could feel him trying to force a desperate prayer through his gritted gums. While I held him there, I took his limp wrist in my left hand and placed my fingers on his weakening pulse. Even after the last faint tap, I counted to ten, just in case. There’s no feeling like it. Empowering—there’s a word that’s overused these days.
But honestly, I had to stop myself tearing his bonce right off his scrawny little neck, running with it through the main corridor, and scoring a touch-down in the staff room. I had to keep checking the mirror to make sure I hadn’t done a Benjamin Button.
Seventeen I managed. Before they stuck me in here by myself. I’ve made no demands, despite the lack of access to fresh air, limited literary choices, and menu, which is quite frankly in very poor taste.
All I’ve asked for is a cellmate. Hardly an unreasonable request, is it?
Rae Toonery is the author of The Boonhill Books. They fund their writing habit teaching Media & Film in a 6th form college. They live with a rescue dog, Jess, in the Midlands (UK). Rae suffers from a rare condition known as Writer's Dysentery, which is a poor relative of the more socially acceptable Writer's Block. Rae is working tirelessly to raise the profile of this issue. Look out for their upcoming memoir / self-help book: Writer's Dysentery: Drowning in the Slushpiles of My Mind.