Woman Enough

Woman Enough
August 13, 2012 10 Comments Writing Stephanie Ayers

*Warning: this story contains graphic violence*

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I’ve heard that there’s two sides to life. There’s the bright side which hinges on positivity and I’m trying to embrace. Then, there’s the dark side, which is the place where I’m coming from. That day never should have happened, but it did, and now I have to face the consequences of it. I have to face the consequences of my son forever growing up with the name Cooter Luke Duke Emerson thanks to his now very dead father.

The tightness of the handcuffs on my wrists only makes me remember that day in more clarity. It was only a few days ago, but it wasn’t long enough for me to change the baby’s name. He’d just been too clever in doing what he did, and well, I just got that mad.

I suppose it’s important to know that I didn’t mean to kill him, just teach him a lesson. But kill him I did, and I’m not the least bit sorry. If only he hadn’t made me that mad. I wouldn’t have done it. I mean I’m not really insane. At least I don’t think I am.

But what he did? The underhanded, sneaky, two-timing asshole waited until I was back in surgery, fixing some gone wrong thing with my cesarean. He asked the nurse for the baby’s birth certificate application. And you already guessed, didn’t you?

Yep, that conniving asshat changed the baby’s very respectable name of Charles Lukas Emerson to Cooter Luke Duke Emerson!

And to make matters worse, I didn’t even find out until discharge!

Who names their child Cooter? He’s the insane one, I tell you. Cooter? Really? And to add insult to injury he had to throw in the good ol’ boy, Luke Duke, too? What, am I raising hillbillies or something? We are smack dab in the middle of rich man’s country surrounded by Bambis and Kikis and Suttons. And I get Cooter?

The man deserved a spanking and in my drugged out, still feeling pain state I was woman enough to do it.

I strapped him to the bed, a limb at a time. He fought a little until I climbed on top, moved around a little, and got it all nice and stiff. He started screaming when he felt the cold steel of the knife against his skin, so I pulled a sock off his foot and stuck it in his mouth. After all, I couldn’t have him waking the baby. Then, I started slicing carefully, just a tiny bit at a time. Who’d’ve thought a penis could bleed that much from the teensiest nick? Never mind that it went down his full length (which wasn’t nothing to write home about anyway) and into his scrotum. It was just a scratch really, nothing worth all the tears I saw streaming down his face. I even stitched it closed. He was sleeping by then, anyway, so I just let him sleep.

And sleep. And sleep.

He slept so long I got mad again. Here I was, four days out from having a cesarean, and a second surgery to boot, tending to Cooter all by my lonesome. He could at least wake up and holler so I could unstrap him. But he didn’t so, I climbed on top again, though moving around did nothing but bust all the stitching I did. So I stitched him up again, smacking it around to test the strength of my stitches this time. A little love pat to his cheek and I went back to tending to Cooter.

Cooter, ugh.

“Cooter’s got the cooties! Cooter’s got the cooties” ran through my head the whole day. My Percocet just made the children’s taunts louder–which, of course, made me mad.

Madder than a white rabbit late for a tea party.

I called out his name, over and over, and nothing. I went back to the bedroom and found him still sleeping. I palmed him square in the chest, and still he slept. I did it again, adding a duplicate hand print to the one that was there before. No response. I even gave his penis a whack for good measure. Still nothing.

It was then that I knew it. And I knew I was in trouble.

I couldn’t lift him. He weighed at least 175 pounds. I couldn’t drag him because I’d bust some stitches and then who’d take care of Cooter?

Ugh, Cooter.

So I used the only option I had. I rolled him to the floor, sheet and all, until I reached the cellar, then I rolled him through the door and slammed it shut. I packed Cooter’s diaper bag as full as I could without looking suspicious, then I set about lighting the house on fire. When the blaze got to burning and the smoke got to suffocating, I waited just long enough to get us out without looking suspicious.

While I figured I’d probably get a homeowners insurance check and a life insurance pay out, I sure wasn’t expecting a new set of bracelets.

Or I would’ve changed his name already.


For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Eric Storch gave me this prompt: You have the opportunity to relive one day of your life. Which one and why?

I gave Eric Limer this prompt: There were fifteen pictures left and spare flashbulbs in her pocket.

I welcome and appreciate constructive criticism. Please feel free to share your thoughts in a comment.

Thanks for stopping in and reading!!

Stephanie Ayers A published author with a knack for twisted tales, Stephanie Ayers is the Executive Creative Director of OWS Ink, LLC, a community for writers and readers alike. She loves a good thriller, fairies, things that go bump in the night, and sappy stories. When she is not writing, she can be found in Creative Cloud designing book covers and promotional graphics for authors.
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  1. 10 Comments


    so what killed him? the bleeding from the cuts? Or did he die in the fire?

    Never mess with a mother…especially one who is still a little dazed from surgery and having a newborn child. My biggest issue would be the believability of a woman who has a fresh c-section being able to do all these things. From what I understand moving around is not easy and rolling a body…well that would be tricky 🙂

    1. 10 Comments


      having had 2 of them and no help after either i can assure you it can be done, albeit carefully. i should have just had her set the bed on fire but i didnt want anyone relating my story to Farrah Fawcett’s “The Burning Bed”.

      Sent from my iPad

  2. 10 Comments

    jesterqueen (@jesterqueen)

    I imagined it was the cuts. I got the sense the narrator was quite unreliable and the cuts were quite deep enough to hit a major part. That when he was ‘sleeping’ through stitches, he was already gone. I meant to say how funny the awful name is, and how even funnier it is that Mom doesn’t seem to realize she can just change it and make it right after the fact and instead hauls off and kills old Daddy. Poor lil’ Cooter better hope he has good grandparents.

    1. 10 Comments


      Cooter, ugh. 😉

      On Aug 13, 2012,

  3. 10 Comments

    Tara R.

    If momma ain’t happy, nobody’s happy. Emotions and irrational behavior run rampant after child birth. Seriously, Cooter?

    1. 10 Comments


      This was inspired by my best friend and I talking about the Dukes of Hazzard cast reunion taking place in a town not far from mine. She mentioned that her husband would let her do anything, including killing his mother, if she let him name their boys Bo and Luke Duke. I told her she inspired me, and I didn’t lie!! Haha.

      And yeah, seriously, Cooter…

  4. 10 Comments


    Ha! Loved it! In response to Carrie: I would think when you’re not in your right mind, you do things which defy ‘normal’ behavior and actions . Lol

    1. 10 Comments


      Thanks, Chelle. And yeah, its like an adrenaline rush.

  5. 10 Comments


    PPD, honestly, worse than the tired and depression of being a new mom. I have been this angry, I mean I didn’t kill anyone..but god I think I might have wanted to. 😉

    your stories are always so engrossing and good.

    1. 10 Comments


      and thank you again. you always have the right words in understandingvmy stories.


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