Friday, December 4, 2015

Chasing the Pinkmist:A Short Story

Chasing the Pinkmist
Sometimes you wish you didn’t care so much about pinkmist, but when you’re melting on an adobe rooftop in Iraq, you can only be quenched by it.
The sweat beads, drips, and drops off your brow— and the water hangs from your 6 day beard after your drink from the plastic canteen, your thoughts soar to the white Hawaiian beach you sank into after an hour of getting beat up by the surf— a condensated cup of Maui in your hand and your lover in the other. You overlooked her cracked and chipped white nail polish and you notice the bed sheets are the same pure white as you run your fingers through her sun bleached blond hair, which forces her into a half smile that makes you laugh from happiness.

Your thought segues to the scene you came home to last year. You find it sweet and sexy and innocent how her clothes trailed off in the hallway with the Indie falsetto singer cooing from her record player. Maybe you’ll jump in the shower with her, but you find her with another guy. A stranger that you’ve noticed before, he lives down the street. You know this is clichéd. 
            You’re forced to shake the thought, and with a lighted cigarette cupped in your hand, it helps. You exhale the smoke in short puffs, trying to conceal your perfectly perched position as best as you can. You wait and wish and want the next taste of pinkmist.

            You think of home again, this time about your three nephews. How old are they now? You think to yourself.

            “What?” Says your spotter.
            “What?”
            “How old is who?” He says.
            “I dunno.”

He shakes his head and goes back to his binoculars. You notice a tiny bug crawling on your glove, which keeps your attention long enough to have a weird conversation with some kind of sensitive conscience you have. You slowly put a finger on the tiny creature and kill it. You feel bad, kind of. The nephews… you backtrack. God, they’re dating and driving now. Far too young to drink in the horridly sweet taste.

Even the other guys in your unit stay connected with the bit of humanity left in this country, but they don’t have a clue as to how thirsty you are for a drink of the mist. No one does. No one gets how you simply crave the taste day in and day out. It’s your 5th deployment and every mission can’t come quickly enough for you. You just want to feel the metal trigger squeeze. You want to hear the ringing in your ears after a shot goes out. You want to smell the carbon from the burnt gunpowder. The pinkmist is the icing though. The cigarette afterwards is a close second.

Sniper instructors say a shooter only needs to be on the scope for an hour at a time. You have been on the scope for three hours, far too long. You have been on your over watch mission for six days now, it might be seven. You don’t really know or care. The last time you had a taste was two hours and fifty minutes ago, and you spilled it on a window of a glass blower’s front door. His wife and kids had to clean it up. You watched with a cigarette cupped and a thought comparing sex and what you’re feeling now, both messy.

Finally, you see a teenage male round the corner of an alleyway that connects the main road you are over watching. The road is a hotbed for IEDs and it’s your job to prevent more being planted. The kid is followed by three more and they all are caring boxes, one has a shovel. The one with the spade begins digging a hole as the others look anxiously around. It’s like they know you’re watching them, but they are just too stupid… or motivated.

“Spotter ready.”
            “Shooter ready”
“Range, 500 plus 1” Whispers your spotter.
“Wind, left to right 5 “He continues.
“Send it” Your spotter commands.
“On the way.”

The natural squeeze of your finger parallels with your breathing and the recoil of your fired weapon sends a chill to the soles of your feet. As your hand ejects the spent casing with the bolt action lever, your eye stays glued to the scope. It was a perfect kill shot, just below the tip of his nose and above his upper lip. This is ideal for a one shot, one kill, as the bullet will travel through the head and sever the cerebral cord. The other two teens start to run.
 “Send it”
            “On the way”

Another blast rings out and catches the shorter teenage boy just shy of center mass, to the left of the spine in the meaty part of his back behind his shoulder. You know the part that always gets knots in the muscle tissue? He drops.

The third teen has hidden himself behind a car. You know you could shoot through the car, but you don’t want to just injure him, allowing for a getaway. You wait, he waits. You scan the area around the car, anticipating any avenues of retreats he may decide to pick. There is really only one logical one, back through the alley they came from. Water begins running from the tire of the car.
            “He’s fucking pissed himself!” Your spotter exclaims with a sick kind of desperation in his laugh.

You decide the waiting is bullshit and you want to fully fill your pinkmist cup. You tell the spotter to get you the .50 cal sniper. He doesn’t hesitate and moves with a sense of urgency. Maybe he needs the mist in his life as well. You give the scope three clicks and put your crosshair just to the right of the left taillight of the orange and white Opel with piss coming from the tire.

            “Send it”
            “On the way”

            The 50 gives its best recoil as the bullet the size of a gorilla’s middle finger spirals to its target.An explosion of metal and flesh ensue. It is horridly magnificent. Everything is gray, except for the pink that sprays and leaks from the dead man’s body. With a bullet that size, if it hit his head, there would be nothing left. Especially after mushrooming through the car’s metal. You can’t go and observe your artwork, but your mind fills in the gaps and it’s spectacular.

            You gladly endure your 15 month deployment. You soak in the death and destruction and desire to kill. Your home is not only physically far, but mentally as well. You wonder if your family will be able to recognize your actions and thoughts and thoughts that become actions and thoughts and actions that become spoken words. You wonder how fucked up you really have become. You dream and see the faces you have taken the life from. You dream with crosshairs. Your everyday life is consumed with crosshairs. You are met in the airport by your family with banners and tears but not a single one from you. You examine every passing face in the airport and every possible sniper nest and ballistic loophole. You are in America, but you’re situational awareness level is Ludacris Paranoid. You break out in sweats when strangers are within 5 feet of you, hordes of strangers looking at you. Your uniform still has dried blood on it, but it’s the cleanest one you had. You smell like Iraqi sand and shit. You feel filthy. No amount of showers can smooth this dirty feeling of your skin. You start to think it’s deeper than that. You start to think it might be a mental thing.

            The drive home isn’t any easier. Every little mound of dirt or pothole or piece of trash makes you flinch. You tell yourself there is no IED that can get you here, but you know that’s not entirely true. You want your dad to drive in the middle of the lane, but this isn’t a combat zone. You can’t do whatever you want here. The laws are enforced here. Cars speed past you, and the whole time they were approaching you had an eye on them in the mirror. You wish you were on a patrol, sweating in a Humvee that is bound to blow up. You wish it was post-explosion, the ringing in your ears silencing the voices screaming of lost limbs and those in your head that were thirsting for pinkmist.

            You are pretty quiet through your welcome home barbeque. There’s nothing to say so you stay silent. You scan the houses around you and count the windows that you would shoot yourself from if that were the case. You feel hunted. You feel the predator constantly creeping over you. You sweat out of anxiety and try to drown it with whiskey and Xanax and weed. You sleep in thirty minute increments; sometimes you get lucky and get a full hour, you always see faces in dreams though. There is always crosshairs on them. You have become the unsuspecting victim counting tallies on a back wall in a morgue. You start to think you are one of the weak-minded, and you don’t dare tell a soul of the thoughts you have.

            You watch the 24/7 news channels, switching back and forth between MSNBC and FOX. Your thoughts seem to fight you even more, but your cellphone tings at you with a message from your high school friends, are you coming tonight?

It’s your high school reunion and you find it hard to believe it’s been 10 years since you’ve last seen this group of people. Facebook helped bridge a certain type of gap, but they’ll never picture you as you. So, you go and drink a few beers and make them look bad at pool. You shoot more whiskey than they could ever handle. You drink and you smoke and you curse, and they love you for it. The girls ask about all you’ve seen and you tell them PG stories. Your class president won’t leave you alone, though she never looked at you back then. You have meaningless sex with her in the bathroom at the local country club and she slaps you after you notice her chipped pink nail polish and asked her why the husband didn’t get her a manicure. You get too drunk and tell everyone you didn’t like them 10 years ago and they’re just as annoying now.

You start walking home but a girl from the reunion picks you up 3 blocks down the road. Jarren, you think her name is. She remembered you in high school as the funny guy. You stare out the window of her moving car, completely hopeless and empty. She tries to make small talk but you just ask her what music she listens to.

“I hope to god you don’t say ‘everything’” You make your little finger quotations.
 “For just once, I would love for a female to actually have an opinion on this subject.”
“Actually I do like everything, my playlist ranges from-“
“Tupac to Kings of Leon to Conway Twitty? Yeah, I’ve heard that shit before.”
“You know what, just get the fuck out.”      
She swerves the car hard to the side of the road, nearly throwing you out of your seat.
“Oh come on, I was just joking.”
“You’re an asshole, get out!”
 “I am a fucking asshole!”

You trudge the rest of the way home and the neighbor is sitting on a lawn chair in your driveway, 2 bottles of Jack Daniels next to him. One of which is halfway empty. A CCR song is playing… something about rain. There are no words said, he just opens the other and hands it to you as you fall to a chair. Swigging the sour mash sends a warm sensation through your veins that you hadn’t felt in a long time. Without a word or a second thought he lights a joint and passes it to you, followed by 4 blue pills and . You recognize these. These are Ambient. You recall a time you hallucinated on these same pills coming back from your first deployment. The AC window unit turned into a monster and started laughing at you. Recalling the terrible experience you downed them with the whiskey anyways. I mean, you can only hallucinate if you fight the urge to sleep, these pills give you the urge to sleep… to coma, rather.

“Your ole man says you just got back.”
“Yeah”
“Did I ever tell you I was in Vietnam?” He finally said.
“No” You manage to say as you hold in a coughing session from the pot.
“3 deployments man, 3 fucking deployments into that jungle and I swear to god I can still hear those gooks talking at night, like they were having a nice get together and mocking us at the same time, like they had night vision eyes. They knew right where we were, all the time. The weird thing is, I knew we shouldn’t have been there, but I had this overwhelming feeling dedicated to the uniform I was wearing. And when I would come home, I would be called terrible names and spit on and protestors banging the car window and hood. I never felt so degraded and ashamed wearing that uniform. To this day I still see the first kid I killed, actually not even the kid, it was what I assumed was his mom. Staring right at me with no tears in her face, just staring… right at me with her son lying there, dead, with half of his face torn off. That’s the shit I’ll never forget.”

He gets up from his chair and puts a hand on your shoulder. There are no more words said, but definitely a connection was sent and received. Combat veterans have this sort of thing, when there has been so much destruction seen, heard, and smelled the brain has to process these things in one way or another. It’s like this emotional process can be relieved from one to another, knowing there has always been terrible shit for the grunts to see and do.

Before you know it he is gone and you are now the one sitting alone with a bottle of jack and a joint in your hand. Bob Dylan’s voice comes from the radio,

“You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy”

You accept that you are just a toy, a pawn, being used as cannon fodder for a small group of elites that want nothing but more money to sit on. You become disgusted with yourself, mirrors become your enemy. You try to show no signs that you were military, but others that are can tell without even talking to you. There’s a certain demeanor about a combat veteran. You count days left in your contract. You think of ways to get out of it. You fight voices in your head and the triggers that spark them. Flashes, crowds, unsuspecting thuds from your dad moving things in the attic, everything from everywhere collapses your ability to function normally. You eat pills that make you fuzzy and everything cloudy. You stop eating pills and hear the voices again. You drink to pass out, but it does nothing but cause dependence and in reality there is no sleep. You learn the neighbor has passed away, an Agent Orange assassination. Cannon fodder. You feel no one around you understands, no one can connect. There is only one way to cope, so you become pinkmist.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

The Sharks (Act III and IV)

The Sharks (Act III and IV)
One day my pain will shine you.

Harness your blame and keep walking

When the hungry sharks circle you

In the morning, I’ll call.


My game is solace and you’re the star.

I am blindsided.

Run through me


And the story’s finished—

Did you hear me calling in the morning?

What might have been lost?


Don’t trouble me—don’t bother me.

Opening Eyes Under Hot Water: A Short Story

Opening Eyes under Hot Water
Katy looked up from the dishes she was scrubbing when she heard a key slide in and unlock the front door. Fear, anxiety, and anger overcame her on the inside, but outside she had to keep calm. The door unlocked. Wayne, her boyfriend, walked into the apartment. He had worked an eight hour shift typing instructions to computer users who needed technical support, but Wayne was great at multi-tasking, so he was also able to brush up on his Spanish, practice his programming, and beat the computer a few times in chess, all of which were self-taught. Katy worked nights at a bar and grill a few miles from their apartment. The oven timer sounded, and she hurried to take the chicken and rice out and serve a plate of food with a beer for her boyfriend.
            “Is this all you made? I’m starving.” Wayne picked up the beer and plate, sat on the couch, and turned the television on. Katy knew she had to lighten his mood, but didn’t want to trigger one of his mood swings.
“I’m sorry babe, I forgot to go to the store today, but I’ll make your favorite breakfast in the morning.”
“What the hell have you been doing all day?” He asked.
           “I’ve got to get ready for work.”
            “Are you going to slut yourself around for the drunks tonight?”
            “I don’t slut myself around!”
            “That’s how I got you.” Wayne said before taking a drink.
            As Katy showered, she studied the bruises on her arms, ribs, and legs. He always told her how good he was at being able to hurt her without people being able to notice. What she didn’t realize was how people could tell she was a battered woman even without seeing bruises. The way she winced at loud noises or the way she would become silent and timid when a man would come around. Her friends were never allowed to see her unless Wayne was there. Her whole life was controlled by him and as she stepped in the shower she wondered how she had become so disconnected with her family. The shower was the only place she was able to escape for a while when he was home. She would turn the hot water all the way off and made herself stand in the cold water. She would watch as the water made a tiny whirlpool at the drain, and began to cry as she wished she could be swallowed by it. The toilet flushed; she didn’t realize Wayne had snuck into the bathroom. The shower curtain opened and Wayne had a smile on his face. Katy had seen this smile before, and tried to be sexy and invite him in.
            “Need a little help getting through your shift?”
            “No, Wayne, please.”
            “Shut up, it’s just a little bit.”
            “I don’t want to fucking stay up for a week!”
            As she finished her sentence, Wayne’s giant hand grasped the back of her neck and he forced her to the bottom of the tub. She had quit crying at this point, and was trying to focus only on the freezing water. Wayne pulled a syringe from his pocket and started laughing. “Say aah!” She didn’t. He slapped her ribs as she curled into a ball.
            “Are you ignoring me?”
            Grabbing her by the throat he pinned her up against the shower wall and forced her mouth open. He started laughing as he squirted it in her mouth. He tried to grab her tongue and force her to swallow. This had been going on for months, but she was just happy with him not hitting her too much. He then sat on the toilet and fixed his own needle and shot it into his right arm. She lay there thinking she had a gentle twenty to thirty minutes before hers kicked in, he would feel it in about twenty seconds. Before he left the bathroom he turned the cold water off and the hot water on. “You need a fucking boob job.” Wayne said, as he turned off the lights.
            Crystal starts with the rush. The rush lasts for about five minutes, but the overall effect will keep her awake for twelve hours. She first smoked it when she was sixteen. Her father had left a year before and her mother worked three jobs, so her supervision had dwindled to nothing. Her life had gone from being overly-supervised to none at all. Her friend, Summer, asked her to go to a party. They usually spent the weekend at her house talking about boys or what teacher they thought was attractive. “Brock is going to be there.” Summer insisted.
Most of her high school friends and class were there. Her crush, Brock, brought her a beer when he saw her and Summer. They chatted for a bit until he asked if they wanted to go to the real party, which was in the shed in the back. Katy was content with where she was, but she wanted Brock to see she was cool. The windows had tinfoil over them, the door had five different locks, and everyone gave her and Summer a weird look as they sat down. There were three guys, her and Summer, and three other girls. Eminem was playing in the background. She watched as Brock broke a small piece of a white crystal and put it in a glass pipe and started heating it up and twirling it around. She watched as the smoke built up and hovered inside the glass bowl of the pipe. Brock handed her the piece and told her to inhale. Eight seconds later, the rush hit her and she exclaimed, “this is the best thing ever!”
Brock raced motocross at the local races and drove a black 72 Chevy pickup. She didn’t have a car, so she began to take her lunch with him during school. They would drive the backroads of western Oklahoma and smoke crystal. At first, it was only once every other week, and then weekly. Then she realized she hadn’t gone home in three days. She made it to school, and would go to soccer practice, but she would always go back to the house to party. But then she started shooting it straight into her veins, making the high stronger and last much longer. She never thought she was addicted because she could go a week or two without crystal. Then she would binge for five days and crash for another three. One night at 4 AM, she began crying and screaming at the mirror as she was putting on makeup and convincing herself that she was pretty. She started hearing people through the vents in the ceiling talking about her, and she duct taped pillows and sheets over them so they couldn’t hear her. That is when she knew she had to get clean. She had been using for two years, and was clean for another two when she met Wayne.
            Katy climbed out of the shower as the meth started to run through her. She thought seriously about calling out of work, but she didn’t want to stay at home with Wayne. He had been using on and off for the better part of five years, and would get extremely paranoid when he was coming down. These were the times he would get violent with her. He once had locked her in the bedroom closet for three hours because he thought she was going to call the cops. He had gotten on top of her, slapped her in the face, ribs, and thighs a few times, and told her he was going to cave her face in if she told anyone. The truth is that she wanted to call the cops. She wanted to tell someone, but she was terrified. Not only what he would do to her, but what he would do to her friends or family, even if they had made her an outcast. It was easy to fall for him though, he was tall, muscular, and extremely smart and talented, but what he hid underneath came out so quickly that she felt trapped.
            Katy hurried to get into her work uniform and made her way to the front door. Wayne was blasting a Motion City Soundtrack song, and was strumming on his guitar, another talent he had taught himself. As she got to her car, she heard footsteps coming behind her, followed by a hand on her shoulder. He spun her around and told her he loved her and they kissed.
            “Don’t go falling for some jackass at the bar.” He said, smiling.
            She was wide eyed the whole way to work, and just as Wayne did, she was playing Motion City Soundtrack as she drove. She was overtaken by the drug and ready to socialize with her coworkers and the regulars that always requested her. She arrived and clocked in right on time.
            “Not a minute early, and never a minute late.” He said.
            “I know! I’m like the perfect employee!”
            “You’ve got section five tonight. Let me know if it gets too busy.”
            “Oh, I’ll be able to hand it.” She said, tying on her server’s apron.
            The night was going very well and the vibe in the bar was even better. A couple of her regulars were there and they always tipped well. One of her tables was a younger couple who were traveling across the country. They were only there for a couple of hours and left her a hundred dollar bill for a tip. The bar began to fill up, as it was karaoke night, which started at nine. The regulars all signed up first so the first several songs seemed to just be a playlist from the previous Friday night. And then she heard a very familiar song from a very familiar voice. It was Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind. Everything turned red for Katy. Wayne had showed up and she knew why. This was a reoccurring thing, but only about every other week. So, it came as a shock to her, because he had been there last week to “watch her.”
            “I’m just making sure none of these assholes try anything with you.”
            “What makes you think I would do anything with them?”
            “I know you like to slut around.”
            This conversation would happen after every night he came to watch her. He would sit alone at a table outside of her section and drink whiskey all night. Katy wanted to call him an asshole and tell him to move his stuff out of her apartment, but knew it would do nothing more than make him angry, which she would pay for when she got home. So she just took it, and tried to laugh it off.
“You know I’m joking baby, I just got bored at home.” He would tell her.
Wayne being there distracted her. Her manager, Mark, could notice. Mark had a run-in with him previously and ended up kicking Wayne out for the night. Wayne had gotten mad that Katy was laughing with one of her tables and became jealous and told the guy to “quit trying to fuck my girlfriend.”
“Katy, I need you to focus tonight. If he is distracting you then he needs to leave.” Mark said.
“I know… he’ll be fine, I promise.” Katy replied, trying to convince not only Mark, but her as well.
Most of the night he was fine, a little loud, but most people are when they’re drunk. Then he began to think she was ignoring him, and wanted to make her jealous. So he decided to go talk to a table of girls. He knew this would bother Katy, but she had to ignore it for the sake of her job. Plus, she was making good money that night and had to stay focused. Her being able to push through the jealously only made Wayne more upset. He had been drinking whiskey all night, and the meth had changed him into the person Katy was afraid of. He was making his way around the bar, only talking to females, until one of them asked him to leave them alone, which he didn’t. Finally, Mark had to intervene, and once again told him he had to leave. Katy had successfully distracted herself and didn’t notice the confrontation. She did, however, get ripped by her manager about the urinal that was torn off the wall in the men’s room. This was caused by Wayne. The rest of the night was long and exhausting, but it ended too early, because now she had to go home.  “He’s going to pay for that, you know?” Mark said as she clocked out.
Katy sat in silence when she made it to her apartment. Her radio was off, her car was off, but her mind was racing. Maybe if she tried to have sex with him he wouldn’t get as violent with her. She took a deep breath and walked to her prison. She could hear music playing from outside. But as she slid her key in, that was the only sound she could hear. The key sliding into the lock made her cringe because it’s such a distinct sound and it usually led to Wayne.
The minute she shut the door, he came from the back room.
“You’re ten minutes late. Where have you been?” He asked.
“Had to stay late to help clean up the busted urinal someone left.”
“Sure you weren’t fucking your manager?”
“No, Wayne! Funny you accuse me of that when you were flirting with every girl there!” She knew he wouldn’t take this accusation well, but it just slipped out.
“Are you calling me a cheater?” He raced toward her and grabbed her by the shoulders and started shaking her. “I’m not a fucking cheater, bitch!”
“Wayne, stop, let’s go get in bed.”
“You just fucked your manager, now you’re trying to fuck me?” He threw her to the ground, “take a shower first, slut.”
Katy ran to the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. She knew it couldn’t keep him out, but she needed some privacy for as little as it might last. She stripped her clothes off and stared at the person in the mirror. She cringed as she lifted her arms to look at the bruises on her ribs. She looked at her breasts and wished they were bigger. She wished she would’ve paid more attention to him while she was at work. She spit on the mirror, stepped into the tub, and turned the hot water all the way on. She let the tub fill with scalding water as she stood under the shower head spilling on her. The doorknob wobbled, followed by a hard knock.
“Just let me shower!” Katy pleaded.
The door busted open with Wayne’s foot hitting next to the doorknob.
“You’re done in here.” He said, yanking the shower curtain off.
“Let me wash my hair and I’ll be out, I swear.”
“Oh, you need some shampoo?” He grabbed the shampoo bottle and started dumping it all on her head and rubbing it in her hair and face.
“Fuck you, Wayne!” She tried to push him away, but he barely moved. She pulled the shower head off and sprayed him with the hot water. Without processing anything she was doing, she had balled her fist and punched him in the nose. He looked at the blood and punched her in the right eye and she fell in the overflowing tub.
“You want me to bleed for you?” He asked while pulling out his pocketknife.
He made a cut across his right palm. “Here I am! Bleeding for you!” He started slinging the blood from his hand. Blood was on her face, hair, and starting to turn the water red. He grabbed her by the back of the neck with his bloody hand and forced her under water. Wayne grabbed one of her nipples and twisted, which made her scream bubbles. Her involuntary muscles tried to take a breath and she swallowed a mouthful of water. He pulled Katy from the water and looked at her. The eye he punched had swollen shut. Grabbing her throat he told her she was worthless without him and to tell people she tripped and fell onto the coffee table corner. He slapped her breasts several times before he shoved her under water again. This time she didn’t scream. She was able to stay calm and hold her breath. Even though his bloody hand was going places that were uncomfortable. Then, just as abruptly as he came into the bathroom, he let go and stood up.
“I’m going out; maybe I’ll go fuck someone with a nice body… This place better be cleaned up by the time I get home.”
As he left, she sunk into the bloody water. She opened the eye that wasn’t swollen and saw the reddish brown. She held her breath for as long as she could, all while she stared at the murky water. Katy stayed in the tub until the water turned cold. She knew she had to leave, but she didn’t know where to go. Things were getting worse and Wayne was getting more violent and strung out. He had been tweaking for two weeks straight and his mind wasn’t in the right place. Could she call the cops? What would they do? A protective order wasn’t going to keep him away. It was just a piece of paper. She had to take things into her own hands.
Katy raised from the tub a stronger person. She had decided to take control of her life. She accepted the willpower that seemed to be running on empty, but there was no other way. She cleaned up the bathroom and started mixing cookie batter. She laughed at the thought of making cookies at 4 AM, and laughed harder as she crushed up several Ambien into the batter. She lost track of how much after sixty milligrams. The oven timer went off as Wayne slid the key into the front door. Katy saw the red again. As he entered, she ran to him and started crying.
            “I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Please don’t ever leave me.” She threw herself into his big arms and chest.
            “I’m sorry too; you just have to try to not make me angry.”
            “I know. I will try as hard as I can. I made you cookies.” She said.
            “You’re too good for me.” He said while running a finger over her black eye and gave it a kiss. He opened a beer with the first cookie, and then he ate another and two more. She tried to distract him to allow enough time for the Ambien to kick in, but he had other things in mind.
“Let’s go make up, baby.” Wayne said picking her up and taking her to the bedroom.
As she lay there with him penetrating her, she focused on the hot red water she was underneath earlier. She felt nothing.
The Ambien started to work and Wayne could tell he had been drugged. Katy was hoping he ate enough as he tried to climb off her, he cursed as he fell back down on top of her. She was able to wriggle from under him after he finally passed out. It seemed the drugs had worked. So she went to work. She started gathering every cable and cord from her apartment. She took the television cable, the computer cord, cellphone charging cables, and even cut the cable from the vacuum cleaner to make sure she had enough. She wrapped the cords around his arms, legs, head, and throat, tying him to the bed. She tied cables together and wrapped them around his hips and thighs. She used every cable and even straightened out wire hangers and twisted them to his legs and arms. She took every shoelace she could find to help tie him down. She left one cable free, though. After she tied him down, she had to wait for him to wake up.
She paced the apartment for hours until she started to see the sun come up. She needed to wake him, but didn’t know how. She tried slapping him, but it did nothing. She pinched him, but again, nothing. She went through the pockets of his jeans on the floor and found an eight-ball of meth in one. She put it in her pocket for later. Finally, she got a wet wash cloth and a big cup of water. She put the cloth over his mouth and nose and began to pour a little water on it… nothing. Katy poured more, but Wayne didn’t even move. She began to worry he was overdosed on the Ambien. She poured the last bit of water and he finally woke up coughing. The cables held.
“What the fuck?” Wayne yelled and yanked. Katy grabbed the free cable and dragged it over his naked body, up his chest and across his face.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.” He said through the cable she lashed across his mouth.
“No, I’m going to fucking kill you.” She lashed him across the cheek and again on his stomach.
The rush she felt watching him wince and cry out was freeing. She finally had the control over him that she wanted, and it lifted her up.
“People are going to look for me.”
“No they won’t, no one cares about you.” She lashed him again, this time on the thighs.
She left the room and came back with two syringes, a spoon, lighter, and water. He knew what she had in store. Katy had known when she under the hot red water. She melted the crystal down in the spoon with some water and filled the syringes. Wayne tried to buck and kick out, but she had been successful tying him with the cables. The bed was bouncing, but they lived on the first floor so she didn’t have to worry about downstairs neighbors.
“Katy, don’t do this. It won’t work and you’ll just get hurt again.” Wayne pleaded.
“You know what; I don’t want to hear you speak.” She said while sticking his dirty boxers in his mouth.
Katy climbed on top of him with the syringes and stuck the first one in his right arm and the second one in his left. Even with him kicking and shaking, he couldn’t avoid being stuck with the needles. She pushed the plungers at the same time. His pupils dilated, and his rush began. The rush strengthened his kicking and bucking and he broke through the cables. He grabbed her by the throat and threw her off him. She crashed into his guitars and computer, and a mirror crashed to the floor next to her. She rose to her feet. Stepping on glass she tried to make a run for the door. Wayne was ripping the cables off his arms and lashed at her as she ran out of the bedroom and to the front door. He got there right behind her and stopped the door with his foot and an arm. With his other arm he put her in a chokehold and fell on his back with her. He started convulsing and coughing up vomit. His grip was still strong on her, but she pried out, and watched him die.
Four months later in Oklahoma County jail, Katy gets a visit from her attorney.
“It’s a shame you had to kill him. We have new evidence that links his DNA to the rape of five other girls.”
“It was self-defense.”
“It was premeditated, so they’re arguing murder.”
“It was premeditated self-defense.” Katy corrected her.
“We could’ve put him away for twenty years.”
“Well, I put him away for life.”
            The attorney shared a smile with Katy. They both knew she wasn’t going to serve her entire ten years, but the process was just beginning.
            “You’re really starting to show, when are you due?”
            “In about five months.”