Aseptic Technique (A Short Story) Read online

Aseptic Technique

  by

  JJ Holden

  Following a near-fatal stroll in his neighborhood in the dead of winter, the fanatically germophobic Eugene Sinclair devises his plan for revenge.

  Copyright © 2014 by JJ Holden

  jjholdenbooks.blogspot.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Eugene Sinclair stepped along the road, gripping the leash that retained his best friend, Terry, and kept the Pug from running off and chasing a squirrel or terrorizing one of his neighbors. It was a cold December day, and though mostly everyone in the small neighborhood was huddled up in their house, their skin drying wickedly from the electric heaters that seemed to run nonstop, Eugene was out for his normal morning stroll.

  Thursday, he thought. Today and then tomorrow and then it’s time for a two-day vacation from work.

  Eugene worked in a clean room, filling bags with life-saving liquids that were shipped off to hospitals all over the United States. He enjoyed his job and the people he worked with and came home to Terry every night with tales of adventure from within the restricted zones of his workplace.

  Eugene felt a frigid breeze smack into his face as he looked across the street from where he walked and saw a few large icicles hanging dangerously from the eves, ready to fall on any unsuspecting person, though fortunately, nobody was out. The icicles would simply hang there until they fell from their own weight, crashing down into the heavy snow that laid a foot and a half deep above the perma-frosted lawns.

  Approaching the end of the road, Eugene heard a car’s tires screech. He saw a wild woman come roaring around the corner, nearly smacking into him and his four-legged friend. Walking towards traffic, he saw her scowl as if she were thinking he was in the wrong. Without sidewalks, what could Eugene do other than walk near the edge of the road? Such injustice, he thought, to be almost run down and stared at with such disgust by the very person who nearly took my life.

  So Eugene did the only thing he could think to do: he turned around and studied the car, studied the license plate, and watched as it careened down the street, turning into a driveway a mere five houses down from where he lived with Terry. He had yet to meet that particular neighbor, but now he felt no desire to meet her. Instead, another desire filled his mind to the brim and caused the edges of his mouth to crinkle upward so he wore a wicked smile which meant just one thing: Eugene Sinclair had an utterly wicked idea.

  * * *

  The day rolled along, with no other near-death experiences. Coming home later that night, Eugene could not wait to turn his idea into a reality. He had secured all of the proper provisions, and his preparatory activities now consumed his every waking thought. His thin fingers twirled and his dark eyes twitched as he thought and thought and thought. They say so much thinking can drive a man mad, and this might have been particularly true in the case of Eugene Sinclair. Without any other human companion in his house, he was alone with his thoughts, only interrupted when Terry would issue a muted bark upon hearing the faulty brakes of one of the neighbor’s cars. Otherwise, the house was eerily silent, and as Eugene sat in contemplation, shining ideas careened through his mind as fast as the reckless neighbor’s car.

  And so the night rolled on until it had become the next morning, the sun waking him in a groggy-eyed stupor. It was Friday, last day of work. Last day to take twenty-odd steps to gown up upon entering the clean room, a procedure he could do in his sleep…

  Wash hands for thirty seconds, getting under the nails and singing Happy Birthday to measure the time. Step into gray zone without touching a goddamn thing, heaven forbid. Gel. Gowning gloves. Gel. Hair cap. Gel. Booty number one, step into clean area. Gel. Booty number two, all the way in clean area. Goddamn bloody gel again. Hood…gel…mask…gel…gown (oh God, the dreaded gown can’t touch the goddamn floor)…gel…goggles…gel…sleeves with gel for good measure in between…and finally, last but not least, put on a pair of gloves over gloves…and…wait for it…GEL!

  All this to practice aseptic technique.

  All this to prevent someone from dying.

  All this to ensure life persists.

  Eugene Sinclair was about to become a symbol of irony.

  * * *

  So a week passes and our hero, the crazily fanatical, illustriously diabolical Eugene Sinclair, completes his preparations. He discovers the woman who nearly struck him lives alone, is a decade his senior, doesn’t have any pets, and works only part time (perhaps to spend more of her time endangering other fellow human beings behind the wheel of her hatchback). He studies her habits on the guise of walking past her house with poor Terry by his side, tired to the bone from the miles and miles of walking around the block, studying his new object of obsession every single day. Out back while cleaning up Terry’s messes, he peers down the many yards between his and hers and wonders if she’ll come out. She never does. Only goes away in that dreaded car of hers, never leaving the house on foot except to get the mail and newspaper. Heaven forbid she walks once in a while, he thought. He thought that her waddling to the mailbox like a tear-drop-shaped circus freak was an indication that a tinge of exercise might not be such a bad idea. But who was he to judge her for her weight problem.

  The pencil-thin, germophobic, aseptically-gifted Eugene only judged people by their actions, particularly when their actions have the potential to harm innocent bystanders. He grinds his teeth when he sees someone talking on their cell phone while driving though a neighborhood of playing children. He mutters every four-letter word he knows if he sees a mother ignore her stroller-bound infant while inspecting the quality and ripeness of a grapefruit. He goes buck-nutty every time he sees someone take one final drag of a cigarette before throwing it out the car window, like the road is some giant wastebasket for their personal use, for disposal of butts that will likely be choked on by innocent squirrels and chipmunks. All of these offenders he wants to mash, wants to bash, wants to shake so much sense into them that their necks break. But he holds himself back. Can’t be the judge and jury, let alone the executioner. In this thinking, he keeps himself from the edge of insanity for another day. Another hour. Another second.

  And then one day, while walking Terry and nearly being the innocent bystander he champions for, he snaps. And snaps hard.

  And now he found himself in his back yard, shoveling excrement and dreaming of a way to kill the woman down the street.

  * * *

  Days passed until the time was just right, and before he knew it, Eugene found himself behind a pile of dust-covered boxes in the large woman’s basement, amazed that he managed to make it there undetected. Earlier that day, Eugene waited for the exact time of day when she would come home from work, park her car in her garage, and labor herself out of the automobile. It was like clockwork, her life, and he was glad his first victim would be so utterly predictable.

  For such a large woman, getting out of the car was actually a feat that took nearly two minutes of maneuvering, which was just enough time for him to exit the rear of his house and rush along the desolate, hedge-lined alley (that had been plowed days ago) and along a shoveled walk that he saw a neighborhood kid shovel shortly after the last snowfall. Attempting not to step in any snow to avoid a chance of leaving footprints behind, he stepped along the walk creeping to the side of the garage. There, he waited until she emerged from the garage on her daily trip out to the mailbox. He waited anxiously, keeping an eye out for anyone, though he knew the coup
le in the house next to hers were both at work, as their cars weren’t parked in the driveway (their garage was too stuffed with antiques and other junk for either of their cars to fit).

  His heart pounded as he waited for the woman to come out. He gripped one of the straps of the book bag on his back, wringing it like he wanted to wring her neck, but just when he was about to think her daily habit had been broken, she emerged from the garage and waddled her way to retrieve the mail.

  Eugene scrambled into the garage and past the dreaded hatchback on his way to the stairwell that led to the basement. A stairwell that he was sure she rarely descended. She can barely get out of her car, he thought. How the hell would she ever get down here?

  It was in that basement he would wait until he heard the garage close, wait until he hear her waddled footsteps through the house for a few minutes until she settled into the living room, where she would, no doubt, watch her television programs while munching on bag after bag of potato chips while sipping the diet cola. At least she recycles those cans, Eugene thought, remembering the abundance of identical cans that were in her recycling bin the previous week. She’s a goddamn saint when it comes to recycling, that’s for sure.

  His mind reeled as he waited and waited and waited some more, going over his plan in his mind on repeat like a broken record. Looking at the digital watch on his lanky wrist, he saw that it was close to eleven o’clock. The house had been quiet for over an hour, and he was sure that she was in bed.

  It was now time to gown up.

  Eugene removed all of his supplies from his book bag, and went through his meticulous gowning procedure right there behind the dusty boxes. He didn’t bother with washing his hands or using gel as he was more concerned with finger prints and hair that might shed while he was making his way to her bedroom.

  Five minutes later, he was suited up, looking into the basement through his goggles, like he was from another world. If she sees me, he thought, she’ll think she’s being attacked by an alien. But she won’t see me. I’ll make sure of it.

  He stepped along the cluttered basement and up the steps into the garage. There, he placed his book bag on the ground near a door that led outside. He unlocked the door and opened it, knowing that an alarm wouldn’t sound as she never had one installed. Outside the door, he selected the thickest, sharpest icicle from the batch that hung a few feet from an overhang. He broke it off and gripped it with his double layer of gloves, feeling its coolness through the latex. The hardest part would be holding onto the damned thing, he thought. But after a few seconds, he had a solid hold of it, like he was born to hold icicles with latex gloves on.

  Back in the house, he left the door cracked slightly, as it would serve as his escape route. He even locked the knob, one less thing to think about afterwards.

  Into the house he went, silent as a mouse, his booties sliding occasionally across the linoleum floor, swooshing like a faint wind. A nightlight lit the kitchen enough so he could find his way into the hallway that led to the master bedroom where she lay. Not more than a few steps in, he heard her. She sounded more like a grisly bear than a human, as she snored and puttered away in her sleep. Grotesque, he thought, trying to ignore the sound, though just the sound of her labored breathing and horrendous snoring was enough to give him the willies.

  Eugene stepped into the hallway, hearing a creak or two from the hardwood floors. He winced each time he heard the floorboards cry, but it wasn’t loud enough to wake her. Nothing was louder than her snoring, and if that didn’t wake her, he was sure nothing short of a 747 would bring her back to consciousness.

  With the icicle gripped in his hand, he stepped into the bedroom, and by the aid of the moonlight, saw her laying facedown on her bed, her naked back facing up to the white ceiling of the large room. She looked more like an oversized beanbag than a person. But who was he to judge…next to him, anyone would look humongous.

  Eugene’s heart pounded in his head as he stepped across the room, quiet as ever until he was standing over her bed.

  Well, here goes nothing, he thought, and with one swift motion, his open palm pressed the back of her head so her scream would be muted by her down pillow, and with the other hand, slammed the icicle into her back in locations where he was sure it would puncture vital organs. She awoke instantly and flailed around, but all of her jerking motions were of no use. He stabbed her a few more times for good measure as she flopped around on her bed like a fish out of water. Blood poured from her wounds across her pale back that was looking more and more like an abstract painting in motion. With one final blow, he let go of the icicle and flung the covers over her naked body so the blood would be contained beneath them. Still holding her face into the pillow, he heard her groan as she lay on her stomach, losing consciousness as the blood drained from her body.

  Moments later, Eugene raced out of her bedroom, through the hallway, back out the kitchen, hearing the swooshing of his coveralls and booties as he went. In the garage, he grabbed his backpack and rushed out the side door, closing it snugly behind him. He didn’t think of anything else but getting home and when he did, he removed all of his coverings, putting them in a large garbage bag for disposal the following morning.

  Once in the safety of his home, Eugene took a deep breath and smiled fiendishly. Looking down at Terry, he said, “The streets will be just a little bit safer now, boy.”

  * * *

  A few days later, while on his morning stroll with Terry, Eugene saw the ambulance parked outside the woman’s house. He figured there weren’t any clues that something was awry other than the fact she missed worked and let her mail and newspapers pile up. In the end, he wasn’t sure who had noticed her absence in the world. Frankly, he didn’t care.

  Eugene ensured that he wore a look of concern on his face when he passed by the rest of the neighbors who watched the unusually large woman being carted from her home.

  “What happened?” he asked one of his neighbors.

  “Joan was murdered,” the neighbor said. And that was the first time Eugene knew the name of the woman he annihilated. A part of him didn’t want to know her name, but he figured as he followed the investigation that lay ahead, it would be among the many new things he would learn about her.

  Later that week, he read that Joan was bludgeoned in her sleep with a sharp weapon, though said weapon was still unable to be found. He knew by the time she was found, the icicle would be just a puddle of water that, along with the blood, would soak into her sheets and mattress. No suspects were mentioned and only a single police officer stopped by Eugene’s home as he made his rounds to question each household to see if they had seen or heard anything suspicious.

  “Haven’t seen anything weird going on around here,” Eugene said calmly when asked. “Damn shame about what happened, but I’m sorry to say that I didn’t get a chance to meet her.”

  The officer went away without any concrete information from the lanky man who lived a few doors down from the poor, dead woman. Eugene took a deep breath, hoping that would be the last time he was questioned, and indeed it was.

  Before long, life was back to normal, or as normal as it could get for a peculiar fellow like Eugene Sinclair. He continued his job in the clean room, took his best friend, Terry, for a daily stroll, and checked the papers to see if any suspects were identified, but none were.

  Months later, on one of his morning strolls, Eugene sighed as he felt the warm August air. Birds fluttered about and an airplane could be heard overheard. Then, a lunatic came recklessly careening around the corner, tires screeching and engine roaring indicating the driver was actually accelerating.

  Eugene yanked on Terry’s leash and rushed into the grass, dodging the minivan that was a few feet from striking both of them. Goddamn it, he thought, as he turned around and saw the van pull into the driveway across the street from the dead woman’s house (that was still on the market months later—no normal person wants to buy a house where a murder occurred).

  W
hen he saw the van stop and a crass middle-aged man on his cell phone step out, the edge of Eugene’s mouth crinkled upward in a sinister smile of delight. Though it was still a few months away from winter, when the icicles would grow in abundance—perfect weapons for his perfect crime—he couldn’t help but begin his preparations a bit early in his effort to rid the streets of just one more miscreant, though he was certain, as the months rolled on and the injustices committed by his fellow citizens piled up like the bodies soon would, his work would never be done.

  # # #

  About the author:

  JJ Holden lives in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. He spends his days studying the past, enjoying the present, and pondering the future.

  For updates and new release notifications, be sure to sign up for JJ Holden’s Newsletter: https://eepurl.com/6t1Iv

  Contact JJ Holden at [email protected]

  For more information, go to jjholdenbooks.blogspot.com

  Also by JJ Holden:

  Life After: The Complete Serial Novel (Episodes 1-20)

  Badge of Darkness: Season One (Episodes 1-5)

  THE MOST IMPORTANT THING YOU CAN DO…

  …to help this writer, anyway.

  Thank you for reading Aseptic Technique. You’ve already made your way to the top of my Favorite People list, along with George, Paul, John, Ringo, Dean Koontz, Kurt Vonnegut, Stephen King, and Stephen Colbert.

  But there’s one more thing I’d appreciate if you have a few minutes.

  If you enjoyed Aseptic Technique (even if you kinda liked it), please LEAVE A REVIEW TODAY.

  For a new writer like me, reviews make a huge difference between finding an audience and writing in obscurity. I would write if I only had one reader. I’m a writer and writers write. It’s in my blood. But the better my books do, the more I can write for readers like you.