Lies.
“Just gonna stand there and watch me burn.”
My friend once told me he thought this song was awful.
I agreed.
I couldn't tell him I understood every word.
“Just gonna stand there and watch me burn.”
My friend once told me he thought this song was awful.
I agreed.
I couldn't tell him I understood every word.
6:42.
Will she be there?
I see the flag and feel a sigh of relief escape my lips.
I smile and lift my hand.
Not one word spoken.
Our routine.
Do you think I'd be a bad mom and shouldn't have kids because I said I hoped he got struck by lightening?
No, because you only want bad kids to be struck by lightening.
It rolls so easy off my tongue; the lies.
I look at myself in the mirror and I recognize the face everyone sees.
I got it, I'm good, baby let's go.
Smile, I know what's behind those eyes.
“Or work. Work hard.
Work will save you. Work is the only thing that will see you through this.”
“Don't say a word,” he cautions me, his breath hot and smelling of yesterday's coffee.
“Don't worry,” I say, smiling innocently, snapping my gum for extra annoyance.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Mission accomplished,” I thought to myself.
It wasn't exactly my choice to have Bryan Marshall as my lawyer, but sometimes life has a funny way of showing you who's boss. The truth is, I didn't mean for it to happen. One minute I was chopping onions to the tune of Leon Bridges; the next thing I know I'm smelling gun powder and watching the blood seep over my brand new floors.
“What an auspicious beginning,” I thought as I scraped the remaining onions from the knife and nudged his lifeless foot with the tip of the blade. I had moved back to Alabama two weeks ago and it wasn't like I was expecting him to come knocking on my door at exactly 8:03 that evening.
Unfortunately, our history was as long as it was sordid. We met in high school, like most couples in the south do. We didn't have much in common, so I didn't see a point in trying to put on a good show. Naturally, I figured he'd end up with an outdoorsy blonde with mannish calves. He was just that type. Boat shoes during the day, mud caked boots at night. I was moderately pleased when he picked me, a skinny nerd with red hair.
“You know what they say about gingers,” he'd say twirling a strand around his finger before he kissed me hard on the mouth leaving a string of saliva down my lip. Kissing was never his strong suit but he'd make up for it in other ways.
Charm. It extended to everyone.
I didn't think many people would understand why I picked up the gun and shot my high school boyfriend. After all, high school was a long time ago and let's be honest, no one gives a damn about that shit anymore. But this was different. I had my reasons, and they were good ones. Not that anyone outside of Barbour county would know.
The door slammed, bringing me back to the stale air inside the holding cell.
“Don't look so smug,” Bryan hissed from the corner of his mouth.
“Why not?” I asked, spitting the gum on the floor. “I enjoyed every second of it.”
The blows kept coming.
You never wondered if the pain lessened the more it happened because it, like anything else, has muscle memory. You remember when it happens, vividly. The second, third and forth time it happens you realize you start to relish it. You seek it out. The rush of blood that fills your body when you know you've hit your threshold.
“Tell me,” you say.
“It'll hurt,” they warn.
You arch to the balls of your feet and flex the biceps that are ready to react at a moments notice.
“Here it comes,” he whispers.
Lights out.
It always starts in the stomach first. Low, in the belly.
Slowly but surely it moves through the chest, into the esophagus.
Finally, the brain.
Hello, anxiety.
Hello, pain.
My skin shivers.
So familiar.
She rolls over and presses her palm into his rising chest.
Do you feel it?
Warm and alive.
Eyes fluttering.
Lips parted.
I breathe you in.
“Are you dead?”
“No schmoops. Are you?”
“Obviously not since I texted you.”
“Haha.”