SpiceLines

At exactly 7:23 Christmas morning, I murdered the dwarf. His misshapen body was splayed across St. Peter’s glittering mosaic floor, and when I put my knee into his chest and pressed down hard, his breastbone cracked--just like a chicken’s when you’re smashing it with the heel of your hand before rubbing it with garlic and black pepper paste and tossing it on the grill. But as the cartilage snapped, his red-rimmed eyes glared into mine with malevolent glee. He leered , pulling thick lips back from stained yellow teeth, and the nostrils of his broad nose flared. A drop of blood trickled down the side of this mouth. And then, quite horribly, he giggled.

Because, you see, he wasn’t dead. Oh, the priest was dead all right. His black-robed figure was sprawled across the steps in front of the altar, a limp white hand turned palm up to the heavens. Just as I sprinted up the aisle,the dwarf had slipped a thin knife between his ribs, as easily as if he were slicing Kobe beef. It was too late for the priest. Now the hideous creature under my knee would not die. His chest had caved in, but he was still snickering mirthlessly, mocking my frantic attempts to crush him.

So I put my hands around his thick neck and squeezed. His larynx cracked, his face turned red and still he laughed. I squeezed harder. His glare became more malevolent as his face began to swell and take on the purplish hue of the plums I had baked into a tart just the day before. Somewhere a disembodied choir began to sing. The last thought that went through my head was, “I’m killing my husband…”

Then I awoke. It was 7:23 AM. But it was not Christmas and I was not in Rome. There was no dwarf. I was alone…and that was the problem.