Current Issue

Home

Herschel Cozine has published extensively in the children’s field. His stories and poems have appeared in many of the national children’s magazines. Work by Herschel has also appeared in Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazines and Woman’s World. Additionally, he has had many stories appear in Orchard Press Mysteries, as well as Shots, HandHeldCrime, Great Mystery and Suspense, and others. Retired from a career in electronics, he has resumed his writing career after an extended hiatus. Herschel lives with his wife, Sue, in Santa Rosa, California, close to his children and grandchildren.

Don't Laugh at me, Sarah by Herschel Cozine

They suspect that I killed Sarah, but they’ll never be able to prove it. I’m too clever for them. That’s why they brought me to this place. It’s not a jail. It’s a hospital of some sort, bright and comfortable, with nice lawns and trees, and beautiful flowers out in the garden.

Now they want me to talk to the psychiatrist. I’m not crazy, and they know it. It’s just a trick. They think that I’ll confess, that I’ll relax and become careless while I’m in “therapy”. Well, it won’t work.

Sarah deserved to die. She was an evil woman; deceitful, cruel, always laughing at me as if I were a child. She shouldn’t have laughed. My mother laughed at me all the time. My mother was cruel, like Sarah.

***

The psychiatrist is a woman! Why are they having me talk to a woman? She is blonde, like Sarah, and has small eyes. Never trust a woman with small eyes. I will say nothing to her.

My mother had small eyes. So did Sarah. Did I marry Sarah because she reminded me of my mother? I hated my mother. Why would I marry someone I hated? Those psychiatrists are all alike. They ask the same questions. But they don’t listen to me. They don’t understand me. How could they, with their comfortable lives and their happy childhood, and wives who treat them with love and respect?

I loved Sarah when I married her. She was sweet and gentle. And she never used to laugh at me. Why did she have to change?

***

The woman psychiatrist calls me Martin. I like that. She lets me call her Margaret instead of Dr. Wilson. Margaret is a nice name. It’s prettier than Sarah. Very warm sounding.

Margaret is not like the others. She understands me. She doesn’t ask me about Sarah or my mother. She is only interested in me, my childhood, my interests. She knows I am a man of stature and intelligence. She knows I am not a child who is to be laughed at or ridiculed. She listens when I talk

Margaret is sitting on the edge of the desk and I’m in the chair next to her. She talks softly, asking me questions, and nodding when I answer. Once in awhile she writes something down on her pad. I like to talk to her. Her eyes are not small at all--not like Sarah’s. They are nice eyes. I don’t know why I thought they were small when I first met her.

She asks me about my mother. I don’t want to talk about her. She’s dead, just like Sarah. I’m alive. I’m the only person who matters now. I tell Margaret that, but she insists. I look away. My head starts to hurt. I pound my fist against my forehead to stop the pain, but it doesn’t help.

“All right, Martin,” Margaret says. “That will be all for this time.”

I am taken back to my room. I hope Margaret isn’t angry with me. I don’t want her to be angry.

***

I see Margaret again today. She is cheerful. And friendly. That makes me feel good.

We talk. About me. Just as we should. I tell her things about myself that I never told anyone before. But soon she asks about my mother again.

“You must tell me about her,” she says. “It is important to me.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. Why does she want to talk about my mother? I won’t let her do this to me.

My head starts hurting again. I can’t stand the pain. It’s the same pain as I had when my mother died. And Sarah. I want to cry, but I don’t. Margaret wouldn’t like it if I cry.

When I open my eyes, Margaret is gone. Sarah is sitting there on the edge of the desk. She has a pad and pencil in her hands and she is staring at me.

“You’re dead, Sarah,” I say.She starts to laugh.

“Where is Margaret? What have you done with her?”

She laughs harder, that taunting, terrible laugh.

“Don’t laugh at me, Sarah!” I shout. “I’ll kill you again. I hate you!”

I lunge for her and put my hands around her neck. She stops laughing and struggles to free herself.

“I’ll kill you!” I shout over and over, squeezing her neck while she struggles, then starts to go limp.

Two men rush into the room and grab me. I fight them, but they are too strong. They pull me away from Sarah and drag me toward the door.

I look back, but Sarah is gone. Margaret is slumped over the desk rubbing her neck and crying softly.

“It’s my fault,” Margaret says to one of the men. “He wasn’t ready to talk about it. I should have known.”

Margaret looks at me pityingly. I don’t like that look. She thinks I’m crazy. But I’m not. She shouldn’t have let Sarah come here.

Margaret tricked me. Now she knows that I killed Sarah. I know what I must do.

The next time I see Margaret I’ll have to kill her, too. But they’ll never catch me. I’m too clever for them.

THE END