Almost-A- Murderer: BACKFIRED Prologue and Chapter One Edited

Almost-A- Murderer: BACKFIRED Prologue and Chapter One Edited BACKFIRED Prologue “Sure, I knew he was capable of murder... I'd groomed him to be,” reasoned Micah's mom, as she struggled with the rope binding her hands behind her back; thinking: “Doesn't every mom wish their son could commit murder for them?... I just didn't think in a trillion years it would be me... How could he?... Surely, he can't or he would've done it by now,” she mouthed under her breath. "Right?" “No! Surely not. Not after all I've done for him!... And he could have gotten me a more comfortable chair,” she winced and whined until both her wrists and ankles were chafe, burning, with her constant irritated shifting. Micah had looped one end of the thick new rope imprisoning her palms between the four legs of the wooden straight chair positioned far enough back from the small circular attic window, so that if she tried to escape or attract someone, she would tip over and he would hear her. Toting her comatose body was quite an ordeal. For, although he was strong, and he had flipped her over his shoulder like a sack of old potatoes, the staircase was narrow and warped... He wasn't sure about both their weights on the creaking stairs. And after he had plopped her onto the wooden seat and roped her up just before she'd come to, he'd found himself sweating profusely and quite famished. He figured that he still had a few hours before enacting an idea he'd been toying with for weeks now. Though, this desire had really been simmering in his subconscious for years... His mom had taught Micah to think only of his desires, after hers, of course. That ‘sentiment’ was useless; was for fools. And that only extreme intelligence would propel one into an exciting and successful future. And didn't she have a way of letting him know that he was inept; more than a tad deficient? That the intellectual reigns of this family were held solely in her capable hands. Plus: “Look at who you married!” was always her final throwback to his face. “Don't you dare believe that wife of yours can even stand on the same stage as me. Let alone share any limelight!” As far as Micah's mom was concerned, his wife, Rachel, had no 'concrete' value if she couldn't continue to pull her weight. “And having your first baby in your fifties! What a disgrace!... My lawd! Even if conceived during a pandemic... She gets no crying privileges!”... So, when Micah's mother starting feigning chronic illness, she had no idea that it would backfire. CHAPTER ONE While quickly downing a beer before ripping off a bright yellow wrapper on his deluxe chicken sandwich, Micah thought about the best way to set his grandmother's old wooden house ablaze. “The wiring is ancient,” he mumbled through the huge spicy bite he had taken, glancing around at discolored outlets along the chipped dusty baseboards of the kitchen and on the back wall of the small yellowed linoleum counter. It was a tiny room with a dirty white four burner gas stove and a mismatched black heavy refrigerator digging into the sagging floor. He became quite efficient doing electrical and carpentry work on homes, since his mother learned how to ‘flip’ old houses when his dad fled to Florida with her male workmate on his arm. At that time, Micah’s mother was a young tired waitress assisting her constantly griping husband with overdue credit card payments jointly made. So, Micah learned his craft as a sad young lad tagging along behind many skilled laborers who bartered service for physical favors with his mom in repayment. She had no idea he was very well-aware of her 'business' connections. So, that day, they'd planned to do a walk-through, so that she’d have a good idea of what price she’d quote, if deciding to sell her mother’s home ‘as is’. But Micah had determined that she would not see that accomplished after the incident. He vowed it would be her last time to belittle him. It happened so fast... Wearing her tan linen pantsuit and elevated three inches in beige pumps, Gloria, Micah’s mom, leaned her shoulder against the living room door frame with arms folded beneath her breasts and a black mask dangling from her fingers. She repeated: “What did I ask you to do?... Can’t you get anything right?” Her eyes boring into her good-natured, good-looking, bearded, forty-nine-year-old son. She didn’t want to spend any unnecessary funds on the house. He’d turned his back on her to continue examining the floorboards, to see if he’d need to lay down another floor. Or, could he get away with just removing a few damaged boards and refinishing the whole. “Mom,” he said, “It won’t take much effort or money to at least make the house presentable... You’d get more money in the end. I can have it finished next weekend.” “If I needed you to think for me, I’d have asked,” she flipped back. “And when have I ever asked you what you thought about anything?... I don’t need a man, let alone my ignorant son, to think for me.” At that point, Micah spun around and slapped her so hard that her head hit the frame and she immediately slid to the floor... He'd felt that it would eventually come to this, just not this soon. Why he strolled out of the front door and down the three chipped cement steps to his truck out front; unlocked the backdoor, and from the back seat removed the rope that he’d bought weeks earlier when visiting a Harold's hardware store in the city. When indoors, he grabbed her up, slung her over his shoulder and used the skeleton key to open the attic door. He flipped the switch on the wall, carefully taking the weak steps slowly and gently up until he entered the cluttered area under the cob-webbed rafters. He’d already cleared an area out for himself month's earlier, as he often needed to get away; a break; to hide out for brief moments. So, there was a wooden chair centered under a single dangling blinking bulb. Micah had no idea how much longer she’d be out, so he quickly dropped her onto the seat; grabbed her hands, tying them behind her, threading the rope around and through the legs to the front of the chair. Then Micah pulled it taut while binding her feet. Dripping sweat, he slowly returned downstairs; deciding to leave on the light, but still locked the door and put the key into his khaki’s pocket. Earlier, he’d had purchased lunch for he and his mom at the corner deli and had put it and a case of beer inside the refrigerator they had picked up at a repair shop a couple of years back, because Gloria had used the house initially as a start-up real estate office. She said the bleak atmosphere of her childhood residence was enough to propel to soar above her tragic past. She wanted no reminders of it. And neither did Micah. As he polished off the remainder of his lunch in three more bites, he reasoned: “It would be easy enough to overload the circuits;” wiping the crackling paper across his mouth. And swiping the crumbs onto the floor. Grabbing his last beer from the refrigerator, he dropped back onto his seat at the table. Running his hand across the top of his head, he looked around the outdated kitchen of his mom’s old home, actually surprised that he had any fondness of memory there as a child. His mind conjured up a vision of a giant man tossing him into the air, riding him on his back like a pony, and this same man bouncing him on his knee... He shook his head as the memory fled and he glared instead at the ceiling, for he heard his mom trying to scoot; scraping the old wooden floor with her chair. A tick began pulsating at his right temple. Shutting tight his eyes for a moment he also clenched his teeth. He knew he had to quiet her before the first-time home buyers appeared. Squeezing one fist into the palm of the other, he forced a stillness upon his rising anger. A young couple interested in purchasing a ‘fixer-upper' thought they'd might be able to stop by before twelve. If they did, he’d send them apologetically away explaining sickness as to the reason for his mom's absence. But Micah had forgotten Gloria's parked Mercedes further up the road, beyond the thick bushes. She wanted to avoid stepping into any mud. Water seemed to puddle at the curb in front of their house. Micah felt that Gloria would soon be hungry, but thought he’d make her wait until she was good and thirsty as well... “I’ll nuke a sandwich for her and pour her a coke.” His plan to also add her sleeping meds which usually put her out for hours... Ever since he could remember, she’d had an inability to sleep long. But that was never his problem. He laid his head down on his folded arms to think. In no time at all, he was fast asleep and snoring. ***If in anticipation of the finished published book on 5/2/2022, you may look for edited Chapters Two and an additional Third Chapter on 4/25/2022. Then Chapters Four and Five I will post on the 28th.