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She sits upright in bed. Beaded in sweat from her clear formed brow to her twat. She had a nightmare and she knew why. She looks over to her right, and there he is, the reason she's been losing sleep. The reason she's lost so much sanity in recent months. Christie almost couldn't believe it. How could she have lost all her power? Before, douche bags by the dozen would line up with their little pricks in their hands waiting for their chance at something marvelous, something bigger than their miserable fucking lives. She exclaims in silence. How could she forget?
She pokes his stupid fucking side, he was such a low life. Why did she fall for him again?
"Greg, wake up you fucking piece of shit!"
He wasn't budging. Was he dead? Christie tried to recall the past few hours before she burst into a sweat in her silk sweats she had raged over after ordering them overseas one drunken night.
She could be wrong. Right? Christie jolts from her bedside and rushes to the bathroom.
"I'm fine! I am fine!"
She splashes some cold water on her face. That's what it was right? Cold water? Or was it hot...
"What the fuck? Why does this matter? I have a fucking corpse in my bedroom!"
She tip toes back into bed.
"Greg! Wake the fuck up!"
Christie rustles his bed side. Hoping for some sort of reaction beyond his silence.
"He can't be dead. He can't! Water...cold water!"
Christie slips back in the bathroom and fills her favorite tooth brush holder with ice cold water and returns to Greg's bedside.
"Oh please don't be dead..." She throws the entirety of the water on Greg and he promptly exclaims in shock and surprise his discontent for what she had just done.
"What the fuck?! You fucking whore! What the fuck are you thinking?! Goddamn it!"
Christie slumps to the ground in horror. What had she done? Or...what was she about to do? She reaches for her pistol in her left butt pocket of her new Louis Vuitton jeans, this was it. Who was he to talk to her like that? After everything she had done for him? She places the pistol in his dirty goddamn mouth and squeezes the trigger. His brain matter got all over her new Prada sheets. Goddamn it that's exactly what she wanted to avoid.
Christie burned the apartment down in the morning. They never found the body.
At first everything was hazy. He opens his eyes and he wants to scream but no sound can escape from his chapped lips and swollen tongue. He had bitten down too hard when the impact became more meaningful in his mind. He tries to put words to it, but it becomes too much of a strain and an obligation on his part to find the right phrases and symbols to materialize out loud. He desperately needed help, the blood was seeping from this gash in his neck profusely and there wasn't enough time left. He remembers how he didn't kiss Adrian goodbye, he felt it wasn't necessary because he hadn't counted on dying that day. Trevor had to keep his mind sharp because the cells began dying inside and the memories were beginning to dissipate in to many different pieces that didn't fit together anymore.
And then it happened. His body wouldn't be found until the following summer.
She stands in the corner of the bar with her cheap beer and her even cheaper hair extensions. She's 25 and desperate for love. She's sorry for that though. Even if she doesn't mean to be, or even if she wants to. But she's tired. She isn't feeling the music and she can't find the right way to position herself. So she walks across the bar and sits down at a lowly lit table. Was it worth it? It's Wednesday for fucks sake. Mona checks her phone, 10:27 P.M. It was time to call it a night. She gets up to go but a man catches her eye. He's devilishly good looking. No older than 35. Golden brown hair and a tall muscular build. He was dreamy to say the least. She needed to have him. She MUST have him. Mona composes herself one last time and walks over to him.
"Hi. I saw you standing here and thought I could—buy you drink? I'm Mona by the way."
She extends her hand to meet his but he only stares coldly at her. As if her presence wasn't good enough, couldn't suffice for him, and so she walks away.
He calls after her and she lights up. She wisps her hair as she turns, putting on her best smile.
He etches his blade into her breast plate and slices open her stomach. Mona's insides spill onto the dance floor and everyone laughs. She was dead. The man burned the bar down and pretended he was an innocent victim in it all.