Loving Jason

by Steve McDonnell © 2003

Jason walked in through his front door and down the long mirrored hallway in to the kitchen. He dropped his shopping bags on to the table. The photo frames and toiletries in the gucci bag made a clattering sound as they hit the oak. He threw his long overcoat in the closet and made his way in to the sitting room.

Dozens of pictures adorned the walls, all of the pictures had a recurring theme; Jason. Jason walking the dog, Jason with his arms behind his head, Jason in sports gear, a naked Jason flexing his pecks. The mantelpiece also had photo frames that told the same story.

Jason put on the t.v. and re-ran an old video of himself having sex with his ex-wife. He had been widowed more than three years ago. It was her own fault. She had argued with him for days when he had his jaw line enhanced by the modern wonders of plastic surgery. It wasn’t because he had gone ahead and gotten the job done. She didn’t mind that. It was the money he had spent. $3000. Lorna didn’t share in Jasons passion of Jason as much as Jason did, and took exception to him wasting money.

It was a week after that operation that Jason decided that his wife had to go. A week of nagging. He got her drunk, poisoned her wine, dumped her in a bath and went to the gym. He came back several hours later, feigned shock and phoned the police. The coroner had given a verdict of suicide on her death certificate. If only the stupid bitch had loved Jason as much as Jason did she’d still be alive today.

Jason masturbated as he watched himself in action on the t.v. screen. He stood up and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. There was a shrine at the far wall. He knelt down at the end of his bed and prayed. He prayed to his god, a god that was born 34 years ago in a semi detached house three blocks from here, a god that he liked to call Jason. He prayed for a second glance from every female that laid eyes on him whenever he was next to leave the house. He prayed for a two pound weight deficit by tomorrow morning. He prayed for his hairline to stop receeding. He stood up and kissed the doll that sat in the middle of the shrine. The doll was an old Ken doll that he had stolen from a kid down the road. He super-imposed his own head on to the doll and built a small shrine around it. Sometimes he would sleep with the doll whenever it got cold in his room, whenever his wife visited. He’d hold it tight and squint his eyes shut as she stood over him, breathing her decay on him. Sometimes she’d stand in the corner for hours watching him.

He walked back down the stairs and checked himself out in the mirrored hallway. He licked his finger tips and smoothed his eyebrows before walking into the kitchen.

Jason chopped oranges and apples and put them in to a blender. He whistled a tune as he poured the mushed fruit into a glass. Goosebumps appeared all over his arms as the temperature dropped.

His deceased wife stood in the doorway. Her face was bloated and had a yellow and purple hue. She had a large steel framed picture of Jason in her hands. It showed Jason in tight leather trousers standing beside Bono. It was taken backstage at the PPS Superbowl Arena two years ago when U2 had played there. Jason liked the call this picture ‘Jason Rocks’

The Lorna thing walked towards Jason. He put his glass down and begged her to leave him alone. She hit him so hard with the picture frame it got embedded most of the way down his head.

Bizarrely, as there was no finger prints or no signs of forced entry, the coronor put a suicide verdict on Jasons death certificate.

x x x




Read more Flash Fiction?
Chat about this story on our BBS?
Or, Back to the Front Page?