Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (8 page)

Except tonight my mind wasn’t drifting towards the usual dark corners it had gone before. It was (justifiably, understandably, logically, no-shit-ably) pre-occupied with Angela. It all felt like the old tale about the monkey’s paw. I had gotten my wish, gotten Angela, but at what cost? I had to kill someone.

(
Yup.
)

I killed someone.

(
Yup.
)

This is not a dream.

(
Nope.
)

What happened was real.

(
Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll look out your window now, you should see the infamous Fantasy World just below. Fantasy World was first settled by vaginas too afraid to embrace the realities of the real world. Here, these vaginas cultivated a way of life capable of nurturing their pathetic little delusions of grandeur, far, far away from any actualities that may appear.
)

Holy shit, I really fucking killed someone
—

“
CAL!
”

I blinked. Both Paul and Stacy were staring at me. Apparently Paul had been trying to get my attention while I was lost.

“What?” I asked.

“You alright?”

No—I’m a killer.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

Paul frowned, gave me that subtle look of his that asked if I was drifting again.

“Stacy’s friends are going to meet her here in a few minutes,” he said. “We were thinking about getting a table in back. Sound good?”

I nodded. “Yeah, fine.”

“Okay…Stacy, you mind grabbing a table? I wanna talk to Cal for a minute.”

Stacy agreed, smiled, and then headed back. I knew what was coming next.

Paul inched towards me, spoke low and with a hand on my shoulder. “You sure you’re alright, man?”

I can’t tell him. I WON’T tell him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You nervous about that call from your manager or something?”

I shook my head. “No, no, I’m fine; I swear. Just a little out of it, that’s all.”

He squeezed my shoulder. “You sure? You know you can tell me anything.”

I needed to squash this. There was no way I was going to tell him anything. I just had to be sure I would not slip up in a drunken stupor.

(
So stop drinking then.
)

I needed some kind of guarantee.

(
STOP DRINKING.
)

So I hurt myself.

After convincing Paul everything was fine, I excused myself to the bathroom, near-empty pint of lager in hand. I found an empty stall and locked myself in. I gulped the remainder of my beer and flushed the john, the industrial-strength noise of the flush the exact cover I was looking for while I quickly smashed the pint glass on the rim of the toilet. What remained in my hand was the dense circular base of the glass—razor shards like flat icicles sticking out of that base.

I palmed the bottom of the broken glass, lifted my pant leg, and with one violent motion, jammed the base of the broken pint glass into my calf. The pain was bad, but not as bad as I thought it would be, the alcohol no doubt my Novocain.

I studied the result. The cuts were fairly deep; and it was bleeding a little more than I’d expected; but fortunately no glass had broken off and gotten lodged into my flesh.

I quickly gathered a large wad of toilet paper and pressed it to the wound. The toilet paper was red in less than a minute. I gathered another wad, and pressed again. Gathered another and pressed again.

This cycle repeated itself for several minutes until I was fairly confident the blood flow was not getting any worse, was in fact, getting better, perhaps beginning to congeal. I balled up a final wad and stuck it to the wound, blood holding the paper in its place. I rolled my pant leg down, grateful I was wearing jeans—khakis might have told the story if the cut started up again. I flushed the wads of bloodied tissue and any remaining glass shards. The thick base of the broken pint glass was too big to flush; it would have to go into the bathroom’s trash can.

The wound had started to burn already, and this was good, but it also filled me with a strong sense of regret. It had been years since I had cut myself. It was a practice I used to perform in an attempt to try and feel, similar, I suppose, to the way a neglected child will misbehave in order to receive punishment—bad attention preferable to
no
attention. In my case, feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all. It is a practice that may seem ludicrous to some, but in the spirals of depression, it can be as enticing as a swimming pool during a scorcher.

I’d gone years without cutting, and tonight I’d fallen off the wounding-wagon. But I was absolute in my reasoning. This evening’s cut was not for lack of feeling; it was a reminder. I would undoubtedly feel this wound on my calf for the remainder of the night. And no matter how drunk I got, the wound would remind me that I could not say anything to Paul about the mess I was in. I was doing this for him.

(
So thoughtful. If you really cared, you’d just stop drinking. What if one of Angela’s freaks is waiting for you when Paul inevitably drives you home?
)

I’ll call a cab.

(
Weak—you know he won’t let you do that.
)

Then I’ll drive drunk; I don’t give a shit.

(
Right—he won’t let you spend money on a cab, but he’s going to let you drive wasted? Try again, dumb ass.
)

Why are you always here now? You were never this fucking annoying before.

(
You never killed a guy before. Never agreed to star in films that make snuff look like Disney.
)

You don’t know that for sure. You don’t know that’s what I’m supposed to do.

(
Sure I do. It’s all been spelled out for you, dummy. A child
could read it.
)

Why don’t you just fuck off? Just
fuck off
.

(
Why not go drink some more? Try and drown me for good?
)

Good idea.

(
That was a test, you weak, weak man.
)

I don’t care. Go back to your Fantasy World.

(
I wonder how long that world will be there, quarterback? Perhaps it won’t be long before you’re in the game and my flight becomes grounded indefinitely.
)

Fuck you. Go back.

(
So you can keep drinking?
)

Damn right. Go back to your stupid little world and prepare for a tsunami, bitch.

I tossed the broken glass into the trash and shoved open the door. I spotted Paul and Stacy and two new girls at a table towards the back of the bar. They were already tucked in and emptying their drinks. I headed towards them.

“Cal, this is Karen and Julie,” Paul said, gesturing to the new girls. “And of course you already met Stacy.”

I nodded my hellos, my calf burning.

“Are you gonna sit down?” Paul asked.

I nodded and took a seat near Karen and Julie. Paul had obviously made his choice with Stacy; she was practically in his lap.

I took in both Karen and Julie’s appearance with casual glances east and west. They were both attractive. Julie was blonde, like Stacy, and Karen a red head, though I don’t think it was a natural red. As far as I could tell, both ladies seemed to have nice figures. Karen looked as if she had fake tits: way too big and perky and close to the neck for someone as slim as she was. Some guys went nuts over implants; some guys hated them. I didn’t really care either way. As the old saying goes: if you can touch them, they’re real.

“So what do you do?” Julie asked.

“I’m a massage therapist,” I replied with a little trepidation. Even after six years I was still wary of the responses I received after telling people what I did for a living.

“Really? Do you massage
men
too?” she asked, her tone proving my trepidations valid.

“Of course,” I said. “I make most of my money on men. Word of mouth, ya know? Pun intended?” I mimed sucking a dick.

She studied me for a tick, unsure whether I was lying or just being a dick. ’Twas indeed both.

“You do not!” she finally blurted with all the grace of a belch.

My calf
and
my head now hurt. I needed a drink and I needed for this girl to stop talking. I decided to address Karen.

“You having fun over there?” I asked.

Her attention had been fixed elsewhere while her obnoxious friend was taking up my time. I prayed they didn’t share the same demeanor.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said with a nice smile.

“You’re Karen, right?”

She nodded. “You’re Calvin?”

“Yup.”

I needed a decent opening before the awkward silence polluted the air.

“So how do you know Stacy?” seemed harmless enough.

“We all work together,” she replied. “How do you guys know Stacy?”

I looked over at Paul, who now had his hand on Stacy’s knee and was

whispering something into her ear. She giggled and leaned in closer to him.

“We actually just met,” I said with a little smile.

“Yeah—looks like it,” she said with a little smile of her own.

I smiled again. Karen smiled again. Julie looked annoyed. I didn’t give a shit.

“Do you guys need another drink?” I asked.

I prayed they would say yes. Please don’t be the types who order one and then nurse the fucker for the remainder of the evening. Please be fun. I needed

(
alcohol
)

fun.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks,” Karen said.

They—along with Stacy and Paul—gave me their orders, and I headed off to the bar, eager.

I was fairly certain that Karen and I had become friendlier. And there was little doubt in my mind that Stacy was now ready to marry Paul. Did that Julie girl leave? Trying to focus on a particular incident was like trying to remember a film you saw as a kid.

I could still feel my calf, so I was quite certain I hadn’t said anything to Paul. I couldn’t have; Stacy had been with him ninety-five percent of the time.

How was everything else going? Was I being a fool? I’m pretty sure I was acting okay. A little affectionate and giddy, but nothing too bad. In the morning I would no doubt convince myself otherwise as my hangover-induced liturgy of doubt and insecurity would run endless laps in my head. Why couldn’t I just be like the majority of people in here and embrace my drunkenness? Laugh at my own stupidity the next day? Have no fear or regret about my gaping lack of inhibition?

Why couldn’t I be like that?

(
Because you’re a depressed drunk. Fire and gas.
)

I thought I drowned you.

(
Still afloat.
)

I thought I wasn’t depressed, I thought I was just a pussy.

(
Oh you’re depressed—no question about that. You’ve been clinically depressed your whole life. Got dealt a bad hand.
)

But…?

(
But you’re a pussy because you know you shouldn’t drink, yet you do. You’re a pussy because you convince yourself there isn’t a line.
)

Line?

(
Between Fantasy World and here.
)

I don’t follow.

(
Doesn’t matter. It’ll all be irrelevant soon, won’t it?
)

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“
What?
”

I turned. Two urinals down, a big dude, bigger than me, was taking a piss and glaring my way.

“Sorry, man,” I slurred. “Was thinking out loud.”

He didn’t respond. Just zipped up, washed his hands, and muttered something like “drunk fuck” before leaving.

“Where’s Stacy?” I asked, although it probably came out more like, “Werztacy?”

“She left,” he said. “They
all
left.”

“
What?
Why?”

“You tell me.” His reply was blunt, his face accusatory but calm.

“I don’t know.” I could feel my face getting hot with shame.

“You don’t remember what you said?”

My face was on fire now. Ears burning. Hot flashes. Fewer words are so debilitating to the insecure drunk than:
Do you remember what you did?

I started rambling like a guilty fool. “I wasn’t being crude. She was hitting on me too. Was it her friend? She was a bitch. Fuck her. I didn’t do anything.”

Paul said: “What’s all this shit about getting off on torturing people?”

I couldn’t stop my mouth from falling open. I felt the blood leaving my face. “What are you talking about?” I managed.

“Karen said you asked her if she got off to people being tortured.”

I swallowed. My Adam’s apple felt huge, like a real apple. “I did?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes studying me. “It freaked her out. It freaked them
all
out. Why’d you ask her that, man?”

I tried to smile. “I don’t know; I was probably just fucking around, man. You know me.”

“Yeah, I do. But that’s a pretty fucked-up thing to say—even for you.
What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, brother, I swear. I just…I fucked up I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your chances with Stacy.”

“Forget her, man. I can meet a Stacy anytime. What I’m worried about is you. You’ve been off all night.”

I reached down and squeezed the wound on my calf until I could no longer stand it. I played it off as though I was fixing my sock.

“I’m fine, man,” I said, standing upright, swaying. “Really, I am. I swear. I have no idea why I said that shit.”

Paul got up from the table, studied me some more. He didn’t look entirely convinced.

I grabbed his shoulder, squeezed it, tried another smile. “Look, I’m hammered, okay? I just…I just need to go home, that’s all.”

“I’ll drive you,” he said. “You can leave your car here and get it later.”