Malice

Having a gun pointed at your head isn’t actually as bad as I thought it would be. The rush of adrenaline is like a drug and I feel it so much as it swirls in my veins, all around my body. My heart is pounding but it doesn’t worry me. I mean, the worst that can happen is I die and I’m going to eventually anyway. Back to the gun. It’s pressing against my head and it’s being gripped tightly by the one man who could quite easily hand me the gun, and if he asked me too, I’d turn it to my own temple and pull the trigger myself. It’s sweeter if he does it. It’s better if he does it. Romantic isn’t it.
Three hours ago there was no gun, no room, no angry ex boyfriend, no adrenalin, no swear, no rapid heartbeat, and certainly no sheer motherfucking death wish from unsavoury, psychopathic, drugged-up men. Three hours ago you’d find me in a dark alley participating in a transaction not meant for prying eyes. Hand over the money. Coke goes on pocket. No questions asked. Done. Simple. Walk away.

Then comes the hit over some filthy club toilet in the rough part of whatever dark city I stumbled into. The lid goes down and you put that heavenly powder onto the blood and shit stained white surface. Shaking hands roll up that twenty and before you know it you’re smacking your head again and again and again against that off-white wallpapered wall. Don’t do it again. Not again. Never again. My girlfriend’s words would ring in my ears but hoot that it’s too good. Eyes roll back and the pain is gone. Everything is gone. Only the hit. The coke. The motherfucking coke again. Don’t do it. Never again. Sorry Keltie.

Then comes the darkness. Then comes the blurred toilet floor coming into view as I lift myself onto my elbows. Then comes the laughter. Always the laughter. Then comes the blood dripping down my lip. The confusion would usually follow had I not been drugged up and fucked up. Didn’t even know where I was. Didn’t care. Only the coke. Sorry Keltie.

The mirror told me not so politely the blood was from my nose. The mirror also let me know I needed a haircut. Then comes more laughter. Always the laughter.

Then comes the empty feeling in my gut I get too often. No more laughter. Silence. Then comes Brendon. Flashes of his face, his voice, his fingers. Always Brendon.

Shake your head. Forget it. Done. Simple. Walk away.

Then you walk back into the club and the lights and the heat and the dancing and the laughter. Always the motherfucking laughter. You get into it. You dance. You laugh. You drink. Your head spins. You stagger through crowds of wasted youths getting off on people, getting off on the music, getting off on anything until you find a door. Fresh air. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re almost there.

Fumble in my pocket. Twenty pack of Malboro Lights and my lucky lighter. Fag in mouth. Light the fag. Feel the smoke travel down the trachea, into the bronchus, through the bronchi. Feel it travel into the bronchioles and take over your alveoli until all you feel is the smoke. You toke. You hear something behind you. You toke again. Your head spins from some hit that could have come from anyone. You’re too unconscious to notice anyway. You wake up in the back of unknown van going
God knows with God knows who

You scream. No one hears. You scream again. You don’t hear. Your senses are shot and you’re all alone and everything is black and you’re scared but still you laugh. Always the laughter. When I’m in the dark and I’m alone and I’m scared I laugh like nothing will ever be funnier.

Then comes a voice. He tells you not to be scared and that everything will be alright and that he’s not going to hurt you. If you have to be reassured of these things something must be amiss.
Grabbing and screaming and pain and a million miles of walking and grabbing and screaming and you’re in that chair with that gun against your temple.

That’s how I got here. The story of how I sobered up quicker than ever before. The story of how, in all that drama, all I could think of was how much I needed a smoke and how the man with the gun is
the man I love. Forgive me dear Keltie, for I have sinned.

***

“Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.” He says, “Where’s my money Ryan?”

I say nothing

“Where’s my money Ryan?” He repeats.

I say nothing.

“Where is my motherfucking money Ryan?!” He shouts.

I say nothing.

He says nothing.

The gun says everything. It says I’m going to die soon. It says that this son of a bitch isn’t joking around. It says he wants his money. Money I don’t have. Money I never had. Money I needed for more coke. Always the stupid motherfucking life ruining coke. Won’t I ever learn?

“You think this is a joke?” He asks. He smiles. The smile fades. He snarls. That sticks.

“Yeah. Yeah I do.” I laugh. Laughter comes so naturally to me. Laughter is the best disguise. Always the laughter.

He smacks the hand without the gun on the table and screams a string of disgusting, blasphemous words. God doesn’t care. God isn’t here. He never is.

He digs the barrel into my temple but I feel nothing. It’s as if nothing is there. It’s as if nothing is there and I’m back to a lifetime ago, sitting in a room, snorting a line of God knows what with him sliding his hands around my waist telling everything will be fine as m eyes roll back and the pain is gone. Everything is gone but him and the hands and the lips and the passionate, mind blowing sex that is long and forgotten as the gun digs in deeper and deeper.

“Ryan. I’m going to ask you one more time.” His breathing is even and his eyes glint from the single light bulb swinging from the nicotine stained ceiling. “Where is my money?”

“Mind if I light this?” I say bringing the fag to my lips and letting the flame wash hypnotically over the end. I blow the swirling circles of smoke into his face.

“Why ask if you’re just going to do it anyway?” He says, face flashing with malice as he pushes the barrel in so far that pain shoots like a pinball around my head. I don’t wince. I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s hurt me. That’s what he wants. It’s what he’s always wanted. My love, the sadistic drug dealer.

Back to Brendon. Back to the bead of sweat that drips down his forehead letting me see through his act. He’s scared. He’s been weakened. This isn’t him. He’s a shell. Inside? Nothing anymore.
Back to when we used to deal together. Those days when nothing could phase him. A cop? Big deal. A knife being pressed to his jugular? That was playtime banter for him. Now he looked like could shatter from a needle dropping on the top of his head. Shame I’m all out of needles.

Back to Brendon. His jaw clenches and, there it is. That look. The look that says, don’t hoot with me Ryan. I’m in this till the end. I’m in this till someone dies. That look. The look I’ve seen a thousand times before but never been on the receiving end of. Some are scared. Some are so terrified they take the gun and finish the deed themselves. Me? I just find it funny. I laugh.

“Always the laughter.” Brendon mutters. “Why is it with you it’s always the laughter? Till the end. Till someone dies. Always the laughter.”

“Because,” I say. “Because you’re such a comedian Brendon. You’re so motherfucking hilarious and you don’t even know it.

He says nothing. He shoots another look my way, one that tells me to shut the hoot up, but I’m not even started. He has no idea what’s about to be thrown his way. I’m going to delve deep into his mind. I’m going to rip memories and feelings out like the blood and guts he’s so used to. I’m going to make him suffer. I want to see him suffer.

“Do you remember,” I say, my lips curving into a malicious smile. “Do you remember us?”

He says nothing.

“Do you remember a lifetime ago, when the money didn’t matter. You said to me, you looked me in the eye and said we’d get through it no matter what. Money or no money. Health or no health. We’d get through it. What happened Brendon? What happened to you?”

He says nothing.

“Do you remember snorting coke with me in the back room of Pete’s apartment? Do you? Do you remember Brendon? Come on. Think. Remember that look you gave me. The lips. The fingers. The motherfucking mind blowing sex. Do you remember Brendon. Do you?”

He says nothing.

“Do you remember the way I made you feel Brendon? The way you’d offer yourself to me, and take all of me. Raw passion was all we needed with the little time we had left. Tell me you remember Brendon. Tell me you do.”

He says nothing.

“Do you remember how you told me to go harder? You told me to go faster. Faster. Faster. Don’t stop Ryan. It feels so motherfucking good Ryan. Touch me Ryan. Feel me the way I feel you. Feel all of me. Don’t stop Ryan. Don’t ever stop. You said that Brendon. You told me you needed me. You told me to never let you go.”

He says nothing.

“Do you remember how I made you shake? I made you come harder than anyone had before. There was your girls. There was your boys. There was me. You told me you wanted me again. I motherfucking obliged Brendon. I did it all for you. Do you remember my tongue? My fingers? The heat? The excitement? The two of us, young, motherfucking under the table, on the table, on the floor, against the wall. You and me. Together forever. You remember don’t you Brendon?”

He says nothing.

“Do you motherfucking remember Brendon?”

He says nothing.

“DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING REMEMBER US BRENDON?”

“OF COURSE I MOTHERFUCKING REMEMBER” He screams.

“Oh. So now he speaks.” A mischievous smile finds its way onto my pale, sweat glistening face. I’ve got to him. The bead of sweat on his forehead turns to a million more. He’s going to break. I’m going to break him. “My lips Brendon. My lips on yours. Lower and lower. My lips would find their way down till I sucked you until you screamed. You loved it Brendon. You told me. You told me you loved it and you told me you loved me. Was it all just a lie Brendon?”

“Stop,” He said, thrusting the gun into me as if I’d forgotten it was there. Never forget.

“Did you lie to me when you said I was the best hoot you’d ever had? Did you lie when you told me you wanted a future with me? You told me you would change for me, and we would have a future. We’d have normal lives. Suburban happiness with a picket fence border, just me and you. Was it all motherfucking lies Brendon. When you said you loved me? Was that a lie too Brendon?”

“Stop.” He repeated, now barely a whisper. The gun said nothing. The gun was there but not there at all. The gun was a barrier between me and him. Everything is a motherfucking barrier between me and him.

“No. I’m not going to stop Brendon. I’m never going to stop until I hear you scream my name again. Until I hear you tell me you love me. Say it. Please. For me. Tell me you still love me Brendon. Tell me. Scream it from the top of your lungs until they are raw but you don’t care because it’s me. Me and you. Always.”

“Ryan please,” His voice is breaking. He is breaking. I’m nearly there but still so far because I can feel myself breaking too. I’m ripping him and myself apart at the same time. I’m so motherfucking close but I’ll never get there because it hurts so much. Every broken bone, every cut, every hit, condensed into this moment and thrust into my chest, and I can’t take it. I push on regardless.

“Tell me Brendon. Tell me. Tell me you want me again. Tell me you want me inside you and inside you. Tell me you want me on top of you, kissing you, motherfucking you. Making you moan. Making you scream. Tell me Brendon.”

His finger is on the trigger. It has been the whole time. It never occurred to me what that could lead to. The situation was dangerous, of course. A gun to my temple. Death is inevitable if it was anyone else holding it. But Brendon? Kill me? Never. His finger is on the trigger. He swallow. He whispers three short words. Then comes the adrenaline rush again. Then comes the smile. Then comes the laughter. Always the laughter. Everything is going to be alright.

Then comes the silence.

Then comes the inevitable.

He clenches that hand that holds that gun that now says absolutely everything neither of us could
ever say.

Then it’s over.