Friday, March 14, 2014

That Girl's Looking for Trouble.

He screamed at her in the middle of the night that only the devil had been fucked by more men and that he'll be damned if he's going shove his dick into any hole that had been traveled so frequently that a god-damned toll booth was necessary to control the traffic flow. And she sat there on the bed with this indignant look on her face and said, with that cool temper that only a woman can have, It never bothered your brother.

So he tore a chunk of cement away from the porch and threw it threw her car window. Now she didn't get up screaming like some hysterical little thing as he wanted her to do; instead she poured rat poison into his greedy dog's bowl and watched it choke to death on the dinning room floor while she smoked a Camel red, filter first, and waited on him to come back upstairs. 

Oh, and did he ever come back upstairs!

He saw his dog dead on the floor and chucked a flower pot at her head but she didn't so much as flinch because the sad sack couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.  Rage is all he's got in mind, heart, and soul, so he's screaming saying things like, "You fucking whore," and "I never loved you;" and she's just leaning back against the window frame smoking cigarette after cigarette. For twenty-two minutes he screams at her tearing at his hair and clothing because by god he's not going to lay a hand on her, and that's when she looks at him and says, Are you fucking done yet? I've got shit to do today.

In that moment she stops being a woman and he a man and they're each of them just things that need to be destroyed so he charges her. He runs fast as the wind and leaps at her with open hands lusting for her throat. 

Only she isn't there. 

He's flying through the air with the ground rushing up at him and he has time to count the twenty-seven floors of their apartment building before he hits the ground with a sickening thud. She doesn't even look back for him after he jumps. Instead she grabs her purse and jacket and hits the door. 

By the time she's down on the street the paramedics have been called but it's too late for him but not for her. She's got an appointment on 27th street with this really cute hipster boy that's been trying to find her g-spot for the last month and as she cuts another mark in her purse strap it occurs to her that today might be a good day for a two-for-one.

She hails a cab on 9th avenue and whispers to the driver that she's having a great day. Only he's too foreign or too dumb to understand her words so she slaps the back of the screen when they get up on 15th and starts screaming at him. At first he pays her no mind but the louder she gets the more his mind starts to buzz and the anger that's been hiding in his belly for the last ten years starts to boil up his esophagus and dribble down his chin. 

She laughs at him. Laughs. at. him. 

He slams the car into park and jumps out on 26th street with a belly full of rage and practically tears the door clean off it's hinge. She laughs at him as he jerks her out of the car breaks his hand against her cheek. He stares at his useless hand, feels her silky fingers under his chin, and looks up into her eyes just in time to realize that Hell isn't an imaginary concept created by man to keep fools in line. No, it's a woman with raven hair and eyes that burn like the sun. 

He mutters a prayer in some Slavic tongue and she licks her lips as she leans lower. Pray to all the gods you know little man, none of them will save you now.

The twenty-two year old artist is still waiting for her up in his loft that his parents paid for and he's studying a copy of the Karmasutra trying to decide if position 94 requires a level of flexibility that is best saved for Olympic gymnastic events when she walks in. Her hair's a mess but she's all sex and hard tits so his pants are off and he's holding his flacid penis in his hands as she walks by him with a dismissive snort. 

"But I thought you said that you wanted . . ."

Not now junior, Mama needs a Long Island Iced tea. 

So he stands there with his pants around his ankles looking at his hands and feeling like a puppy dog who just got kicked when she finally looks over at him and rolls her eyes. Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?

"I thought that we were going to try a new position as soon as you got over here."

Life's full of disappointments. Learn to masturbate and get over it.

And he cries. He sniffles as she takes her first sip and then tears, big, bulbous, tears cascade down his cheeks! He lets out this mournful sound that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at the same time and scoots down the hallway, with his pants still around his ankles, to slam a door to a room that uses curtains for walls. 

The gut wrenching sobs coming from that wretched hipster would have put most anyone on edge but not her. No she sat there on the couch she had bought with her ex's rent money and a cruel little smile played across her face. She hummed and slid those lithe fingers into her purse and pulled out a mason jar where she's kept me for the last five years with only books and quills to keep me company. 

It's good to see you awake little diary, she begins with that devilish twinkle in her eye, today's been a very good day.


  1. Whoa, this was a very bad-assed piece of writing, here! Bitches, man.

    (Also, I don't know if you are up for some light constructive criticism, but if you are, I think that "He sniffles as she takes her first sip and then tears, big, bulbous, tears cascade down his cheeks" works better with a period than an exclamation point. In prose it *generally* looks kind of amateurish. But this was a great, great little piece. Good job.)

    1. Nope, totally down for that criticism. I had been debating using the period or exclamation point and decided to use the one that was closer to how I would actually tell the story in real life.

    2. Fair enough! :)


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