“Pistol to the forehead. Raspberry
Jam,” he drawls lazily. He looks like a demon, beautiful and manipulative and
out of my reach.
There are
empty liquor bottles that have their labels replaced with Post-it notes. Vodka
now says “Polyjuice potion”, Tequila now says “Luck potion.” There’s a white
line on the table and a rolled up dollar bill.
“I’ll only
speak in riddles from now on,” he says to me. There’s blood on his shirt and I
don’t think it’s his. I don’t say anything, just start cleaning. His eyes are
bloodshot and his face is incredibly relaxed. His lips are elastic, and can
stretch like a python’s mouth when he grins.
“You know
you like it when I play games with you,” he keeps talking. I keep cleaning.
I’ll get to the coke last in case he wants to take another hit.
“Pistol to
the forehead. Raspberry Jam,” he repeats.
“You think
you’re God,” I say at last. His hair falls in wild waves, layered and feathered
to perfect punk rock perfection.
“I could
be,” he says. “As long as you worship
me.”
It’s the
closest he’s ever come to a statement of love. I tremble and hate that I do.
“Whose
blood is that?” I ask hesitantly, and sit beside him on the edge of the sofa.
When he scrambles up to give me room, he kicks over the tiny little table and
knocks over half a bottle of Jack on the floor. The label is replaced with
“Love Potion”.
“Could be
yours,” he has a slight lisp because of the tongue ring. He has a giddy elated
smile.
“I’m not
cleaning up another body for you,” I tell him. “Not again.”
“It was
just a hooker,” he tells me and rolls his eyes. His causality borders on
excited. “Filthy slut thought she could charge more than what we bargained.
Pistol to the forehead raspberry jam.” He starts to giggle. I bite my lips and
try to stop myself from shaking my head. I make a small movement with my hand-
bringing my fingers hesitantly to his hair and then pulling away and resting my
hand on my legs. I had to get out of there. It would be so easy to just run
away.
I tell him
I’m going to take the bottles out to the recycling. It’d be so easy to just
keep going. Find a new boyfriend who actually touches me, tells me he loves me.
Find a new apartment where I don’t come home to dead prostitutes.
As I’m
leaving he calls out, “I will always be God because you’ll always be here to
worship me, love.”
