Serial killers. Everywhere. Calling out to her. Psychically.
During dinner.
“I will kill again.”
My mother’s fantastic puttanesca recipe ruined by association. The same rogue cop finishes all of my wife’s meals for her while she cries and tells him of her horrible visions.
They touch hands while I do dishes. Doesn’t take a psychic to see that.
At our son’s bar mitzvah she faints. She twitches on the floor for ten minutes. When she wakes, she points at little Marty and shouts “You! You are the one who did it!” before falling back into the arms of that same rogue cop, who must be psychic too, to show up every time, uninvited, last minute, to catch her.
Little Marty, apparently, did do it. Pushed his sister off a ledge. He was five at the time. His sister two. She died. Two years after my son’s bar mitzvah, so did Marty. Suicide: due to the public outing of the horrible secret he’d been in counseling over ever since.
In Milwaukee, my wife says: A guy is cutting up other guys and having sex with their severed heads. He keeps them in the fridge next to the Pabst.
In Scotland, my wife says, she sees sheep and a shepherd but no serial killers. The sheep talk to her as well. Sheep in Scotland. Sheep in Serbia. Sheep in Australia. New Zealand. What about goats, I ask. I cannot speak to goats psychically, she says. They speak in the tongue of the devil.
Speaking of the devil, he’s also been chatting with my wife. He’s coming back soon. Apparently, he’s got a show lined up for the fall season. She can never quite understand the title due to his accent. Something “rehab.”
Somehow amidst all the terror of years and years of being psychically direct messaged by all manner of murderers, rapists, mutilators and molestors, my wife has given birth to three healthy kids.
It wasn’t until the third one, the only girl was born that I started to become suspicious. All the kids are blonde. And my wife and I both Russian Jews. Detective Svenson, however, has a full head of golden hair.
Also, my daughter at 5, began seeing her past lives. All of which occurred in Norway and Denmark.
Detective Svenson, or as my wife calls him, Bo, moved in with us after the last case:
A psychic serial killer was psychically toying with my wife.
Using her as a pawn. Tricking her to show up at the scene of the crime the instant it would occur.
Detective Svenson was wounded. He bravely took a torturing for her. Was forced to chew off and swallow his own toes. But he has no relatives in the states. Which is why he lives with us now. I wish he wouldn’t clean his gun at the table.
But since he moved in my wife has been much happier. The serial killers seem less interested in talking to her, now that she lives with a cop.