“The Jog” By Christopher Lee


    Another wonderful piece by local writer Christopher Lee. Fair warning, this article does have adult themes.


    By Christopher Lee


    “I don’t really care too much for running, Jonny,” said Shana timidly from across the hall, where she stood out of sight, no doubt putting on her tennis shoes, “I think that maybe a light jog is more my pace.”


    That was exactly what I wanted to hear that cold October morning. Shana wanted to go for a nice little walk around the lake behind her cottage, where she and I had spent the last two weeks shacked up and fucking like animals. The cruel irony was that I was going to kill her: on her precious nature walk she would die like an animal. Such a shame to murder such a beautiful body, but the inside was truly horrific, and so the impulse for empathy lay motionless in the far recesses of my brain. Surely, it had ample time to make itself known—this plan had been in place for awhile.


    Certainly I had considered the ramifications of what I was about to do. I would need at least six hours back at the cottage to dispose of what little evidence I had managed to leave, having been extremely cautious every waking hour. Once clean, I could take the money that Shana kept hidden under the bed—the bitch couldn’t even pick a decent hiding space—and make my escape unnoticed and nonetheless unharmed. The best part, of course, was the Grieving Husband part. Not that I would be playing that, no way in hell would I ever marry a hellacious woman such as Shana—let alone put up with fifteen years of what I could barely stand two weeks of. The role of Grieving Husband would be played by her soon- to- be ex husband Richard, whose money resided in the shittiest hiding spot in the world. After almost a year of trials and counselors, the two had finally had an all- out fist fight which left Shana in the hospital with two broken ribs and a concussion; the final straw for divorce.


    The amusing part for me was that I wouldn’t even be a suspect in the investigation. Since the day that we had met, she hadn’t spoken a word of me to anyone—afraid that allegations of her infidelity, not that I was the only one—would come back to haunt her in the legal sense, and would leave her high and dry in the financial shitter. So, even as time went on and the court processes began, I was never known to anyone save for Shana herself. Every place we went was devoid of surveillance equipment, and we were never followed. 


    She and I had met in a bar by the tracks, an obvious indicator that nothing should be considered permanent or anything close to. I felt bad for the cute little blonde in the corner with the black eye, the one she had tried so desperately to cover with makeup, that I approached her with what the bartender had said she was drinking. From underneath her hand, she had smiled timidly and I felt warmth spread through my chest. Since then, I have come to realize that it was probably the whiskey.  


    It wasn’t long before I began to see her on the regular, and not much longer after that did I start to see her for what she truly was. She wouldn’t leave this Richard fellow, not empty handed. Not for me. So I pleaded, knowing that this would end in some violent manner.


    “Please Shana,” I had said, “just come with me. I have money enough to take care of us both. Fuck Richard, he is going to end up putting an axe to your head.”


    Oh, the irony in those words.


    She would reassure me that she was going to leave, at least until we fucked another time or two. Then, before she would leave, the change in her would begin.


    “Jonny, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but I am NOT leaving Rich. He is my husband, and I love him.”


    And so, this would occur regularly. Sometimes I would hear it three to four times a month. When she was all bent out of shape and tired of the abuse, Shana would come back to me and bring back that warm feeling in my chest. She would swear devotion to me time and again, especially while we made love, but when it was over, it was back to the hand that fed her voracious appetite.


    I would break, every time. I started to convince myself that maybe she was the victim in all of this, that perhaps some of the occurrences were even somehow MY fault. Of course, that was bullshit and I think a part of me knew that even then. But I continued allowing the debauchery nevertheless; stuck in the belief that Shana Jacobs truly loved me but was perhaps too afraid. It was only the last time that she ventured to my house—ironically just before the trip to her cottage—that I realized that she had to die.


    She lay on top of me, her perfect bosoms resting on my chest, partially obstructed by her kinky blonde hair that lay askew. Her perfect little white arm caressed my chest as she panted heavily from the hour before.


    “That was amazing Jonny,” spoke Shana in between breaths.


    I smiled a little, although I could sense somehow that this conversation was going south quickly.


    “I aim to please, my lady.”


    “Too bad this has to be the last, Jon Jon.”


     Bewildered, I sat up, throwing her aside onto the bed.


    “What the fuck did you just say to me, Shana? Repeat that again, please.”


    Although I spoke kind words, my tone was far from sweet.


    “You heard me Jon, goddamit. We are done. The screwing has been great, but we’re through.”


    Frustration welled inside me, and like a boiler gathering pressure, I could feel my core body temperature rising steadily. My hands were balled up into fists, and I could feel my whole being shaking.


    “You just wait and SEE if we’re through Shana. I guarantee that your ass will be back on my doorstep within a week, probably with another black eye too. Or maybe a fractured jaw. Oh, maybe this time it will be worse Shana, maybe this time your darling Rich will go too far and kill you, save you the trouble of having to decide between his abusive ass and a guy who fucking loves you!”


    With that, I lifted her off the bed by the waist and walked through the front door. Once outside, I set her down on her feet firmly, looked once into her eyes and walked inside. I knew she would be back. But, I also knew that I had to kill her.


    In all the time since, I have asked myself many times why I would want to kill someone who I claimed to have loved and I am sure too that many would have the same question; assuming anyone ever found out. The truth is, between the two of us, that a part of me snapped that last day. Like a splinter in my mind, the memory would never pass and I knew too that she had never truly loved me. I am not the jealous lover type, nor have I ever been. She didn’t have to love me and only me or no one else could have her. She just had to go.


    And now Shana stood across the hall from the cottage bathroom where I stood brushing my teeth slowly and methodically. She had come back within the week, as I had promised, the victim of that final attack with even some of the injuries I had predicted. Not to say that a little anonymous email containing pictures I had sent hadn’t caused that beating. Not to say that I hadn’t recommended certain measures be taken to ensure she would never do such horrendous things again.


    “I don’t really care too much for running, Jonny,” said Shana timidly from across the hall, where she stood out of sight, no doubt putting on her tennis shoes, “I think that maybe a light jog is more my pace.”


    She had healed up mostly after two weeks of crazy sex, and now began to look much like the woman that I had fallen in love with. In truth, it was innocent moments like this that I felt almost a tinge of guilt at what was planned for her. Then, within seconds, the memories of every last word she said would flood my brain and I would feel nothing at all. No anger, no pain, no sorrow. Shana was going to die this day.


    “Don’t worry Shan, just a little jog around the lake. It really is a beautiful morning, perfect for some exercise with my beautiful lady.”


    Our eyes met and I forced a smile; one that I hoped would be the last until the aforementioned deed was done. Shana flashed a smile back at me, and for the briefest of seconds, all was perfect again. I did, however, know better than to trust my fast- beating heart so to save myself from a flood of bullshit emotions, I looked away.


    Five minutes later, we were out the door and onto the literal dusty trail. Fortunately for me, Lake Toluca had very few cabins, and none of them—so far as I knew—were occupied as of yet. Not until the leaves really began to fall from the trees would the flocks of eager tourists begin to flow like a hideous cesspool of oohs and ahhhs and never-ending photographs; endless guffaws at a normal occurrence in nature. Such tourism and idiocy makes me sick. But, until said ritual began, this whole rich woodland area would remain an ideal place to kill and bury Shana.


    “Okay,” she sighed, “you ready?”


    With little choice, I forced another smile and nodded as I bound for the door, doing my best to keep my eagerness and anxiety at bay. It was, after all, just a harmless walk through the woods.


    “Ya know, I’ve been thinking,” I said after fifteen minutes of silent pacing. “With this whole Richard thing out of the way, maybe we could—“


    “Christ, you never give it a rest, do you? You just can’t let something slide even for just one goddamn evening!”


    Jonny, hey Jon you listening? Said a voice from seemingly inside my very head.


    Yeah, I guess I am.


    Alright, slick, now listen here. Who I am is of no importance; let’s just say I’m a part of you. And, as a part of you, I wish to see this whole mess done and over with. This bitch is gettin’ too comfortable in her own skin and she’s liable to throw you away again any old day now. Now what you gotta do is keep your eyes open


    For the next five minutes, while Shana continued to yell, I began to tune her out and instead listened to the Old Dude as he filled me in on what I needed to know.


    After all this time, I really can’t believe that things have come to such a turn. Even though I don’t regret the things that I’ve done, I wish with all of me that I could take them back and maybe even prevent all this hell that killing her has brought on me. I think when he first made himself known to me that the Old Dude knew what was going to happen when I killed her, I think now that maybe his voice was no voice of reason but instead the voice of a devil—maybe even the fucking devil himself.


    Just as the voice had promised me, two and a half minutes later we came to a right bend in the trail which was particularly overgrown with foliage. This alone wouldn’t have been too disconcerting, could have even been a forgotten memory that my subconscious had brought up. It was what was buried in the thickest of the foliage that was disturbing.


    A long heavy wood handle smoothed and polished held onto a sharp red angular head that could have cut down half the forest but seemingly hadn’t aged a day. This was exactly what the Old Dude had promised. A shiver ran up my spine as I lifted the handle from the dark thicket, unaware that anyone was there aside from me. Unaware that Shana stood behind me with her hands on her hips, her non- verbal way of communicating disgust at the man who would stop to pick up an axe.


    “Great,” she breathed angrily, “just great. Now my boy- toy is just stopping to pick up random axes in the bushes. Just fucking great, can’t get you to pay attention to a single word I say, and now this. You know what, Jon, fuck this—we are through.”


    Not even two seconds later, the axe came down and into where her shoulder and neck intersected, making a meaty thhhhp sound as it sunk in.

    Shana let out a cry of pain and dropped to her knees as I lifted the axe again, poised to strike the back of her thighs in a sideways chop.




    She fell face- first to the earth and began to sob. The bitch’s feeble attempts to tug at my heart strings.


    I moved forward in a very fluid motion and, using the toe of my right shoe, rolled her over so that I could look into her dying eyes.


    “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged in between hitching for breath.


    I circled until I was poised above her head, just out of sight where I lifted the weapon slowly, preparing for the final blow. This was truly fun.


    “Jonathan, I- I didn’t mean it like that.. I juh- just haven’t been myself lately and I’m s-s-sorry.”


    “Neither have I.”



    Christopher Lee was born and raised in Orlando, Florida and from a young age, always had a penchant for writing. During his high school years, Christopher worked closely with a lot of other writers in groups and continues to work alongside his friends and colleagues still. Although he often dabbles in various hobbies such as playing music, this man’s heart will always belong to his writing. Even though he is new to publishing his work, there is no doubt that Christopher Lee is a name to be remembered and a force to be reckoned with.