I'll never forget that stormy night he showed up at my door, clearly lost, reeking of cheap booze and bad intentions. My little town, it's usually so quiet, so safe. But there was something about him, a wildness in his eyes that made my skin crawl.

     At first, I tried to be kind. I told him he could wait out the storm on my porch, even offered him a cup of coffee. But as the hours ticked by, his words started to slur, his laughter growing louder and more menacing. That's when he made his move, grabbing at me with rough hands.

     He wanted to make me his for the night. His massive calloused hands, pawing at my chest and trying to get between my legs. He was like a wild animal, and every bit as strong. I kept my composure as best I could, blocking his leed advances until he slapped me. The room became dim and my hearing nothing more than a piercing ringing noise. As I looked up from the floor I could make out his Silhouette coming towards me. But there wasn't enough time to react before I felt that huge boot kick me right in the face. 

     He stood there, speaking his vulgarities at me, ranting about the twisted things he was going to do to me as I crawled away from him. I made it to a different room and used the counter top to hoist myself upright. He came lunging towards me, and I managed to mule kick him right between the legs.

     It wasn't until he stumbled, until that moment of distraction, that I saw my chance. The kitchen knife, it was just there, glinting in the dim light. It felt heavy in my hand, solid. And then it was just him and me, and the sound of the rain.

     The look in his eyes when I spun around and ended his bull-like charge towards me by plunging that knife into him, is a look I will always remember for the rest of my life. The vulgarities turned into grunts, and the heavy disgusting breathing of his slowed to a stop.

     After, there was only silence. And the body, staring up towards God, seemingly begging him to let him in, lying there on my floor. I didn't think, not really. I just acted. The knife, it was still sticky with him, but I used it anyway.

I cut that man down to size, reducing him to pieces of himself. The thunder cracked wildly as his bones snapped and ligaments popped.  Now I just needed to find a place to dispose of him.

     The cherry tree, it was the only place that made sense. I wasted little time making my way out to the shed and grabbing a shovel. Going out in the cover of night and rainfall, every strike of lightning illuminated the sky and the blood from his mound of parts, how it saturated the dead grass beneath the tree. It reminded me alot of how the cherries would stain the ground when the blackbird would pluck them from the tree and eat them. 

     Digging, the dirt was wet and easy to turn. And the pieces, they fit neatly into the holes I made.

It was like playing the game operation, but in reverse, putting the parts back into their little cubby holes. I had to put the game away, never to be played again. 

     The days passed, slow and quiet. The police, they came to the neighborhood asking questions, but I just shook my head, played the scared little woman. They didn't press, not really. It's like they knew, deep down, that I'd just been fighting for my life.

     But the cherries, they came fast that year. Big and red and plentiful. The neighbors, they'd smile and wave, their kids' eyes gleaming with excitement. And I'd smile back, invite them to take a few. Looking around watching all of these people chewing on those bitter cherries, knowing the evil they were growing from. 

     I could feel him, down there in the dirt, every time those cherries were touched. It made me smile to feel his presence, knowing he couldn't hurt anyone ever again.  It was a strange sort of justice, I suppose.

     Years have passed now. The cherries still grow, every summer without fail. And every summer, the neighbors come. They still smile, still thank me for my generosity. But I can see it, deep in their eyes. A question, a flicker of suspicion. Because kids, they have a way of knowing, don't they? They can feel the bad in the world. But are they feeling his presence, or is it me they are weary of?

     And I sit here, on my porch, every year, watching them pick. I can feel the weight of that knife, the stickiness of the handle, even now. And in the back of my mind, there's always a whisper:

What if they dig? 

What if they find him? 

What if the stains are still there?