Hello Kitty Must Die (26 page)

Nothing gets left behind. That’s all Dahmer wanted to avoid. Being left behind.

Oh well.

The next morning, I left home an hour earlier than usual, citing an early morning meeting. But instead, I went to Walgreen’s, where you can get anything from condoms to ear medicine to wine bottle openers, all at a low, reasonable price. I purchased a ninety-nine-cent lighter, one of those cheap ones stocked next to the cash register.

Then I walked over to the remains of Sean’s apartment on Russian Hill. I had heard the fire engines screaming last night towards Sean’s place. I smelled the smoke, heard the boom, turned over and went to sleep.

But now I stood on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, looking up at the large, gaping black hole which used to be his living room window. Bits of charred debris littered the ground, along with glass, plaster, and evidence of the firefighters’ efforts of rescue.

I pulled out my cheap lighter and the Dunhill cigarette I took from Sean from my coat pocket. And lit it.

I put the cigarette to my lips and inhaled. The hot, rich smoke burned my throat, making me cough violently. But undaunted, I tried it again. It was better the second time and the third. Asthma be damned. Everyone has to die.

I stood there looking up at the remains of Sean’s apartment, smoking Sean’s cigarette and recalling the conversation we had on
The Countess
that day we sailed to Angel Island. I thought about what he had said about his ashes and what he wanted. And then I took a deep breath, telling myself that that was what Sean would have wanted. That’s what people always tell themselves.

And then I took another.

And another.

I was inhaling Sean’s ashes, essence, spirit, whatever was left of him in the air around me. It was better than consuming his flesh, his genitals, his body parts. Lower risk of contracting a disease. No risk of someone calling me a freak.

A mulatto, an albino

But it’s very much the same thing, whether it goes through the nose or the mouth. All those little tiny particles, like mini ticks and fleas.

A mosquito, my libido

With my lungs full of Sean, I went to work.

“Good morning, Doreen.”

And it truly was a good morning.

“Fiona, have you been smoking?”

“No, Doreen, I don’t smoke. But I was walking down the street behind someone who was puffing away.”

“How inconsiderate. I hope you said something.”

“Nah, you never know. He could be one of those nutters who’ll punch you in the face for saying something.”

“True.”

Doreen knew the City too.

I turned on my computer, checking the local news online. I didn’t even have to search for the story. It was under the Breaking News section.

Local Surgeon Killed in Gas Explosion:
Dr. Sean Killroy, 29, a prominent plastic surgeon of San Francisco, died yesterday evening in an explosion at his Russian Hill apartment. Investigators believe Killroy accidentally set off the explosion when he struck a match to light a cigarette, unaware that his apartment had a gas leak. The explosion also claimed the life of Killroy’s neighbor, Betty Mulroney, 86, who was found in Killroy’s apartment. Authorities believe the two victims had been friends...

Betty and Sean. Friends. How lovely. More newspaper half-truths.

Here we are now, entertain us

A professional picture of Sean smiling in a white doctor’s coat with a stethoscope around his neck accompanied the article, which continued with a discussion of the dangers of smoking, the impact tobacco has on daily life, and how this tragedy could have been avoided if Dr. Killroy, who was a doctor and should have known better, had quit smoking.

Guess Sean should have heeded the warning on cigarette packages:

SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: Quitting Smoking

Now Greatly Reduces Serious Risks to Your Health

That was certainly true in his case.

But Sean had gotten part of his wish.

He had wanted to be cremated. The explosion certainly took care of that, but too bad Betty hadn’t been alive to choke on his ashes. At least the rest of his neighbors would.

At least, I did. Just like a good little Chinese mantis.

I considered the portrait of the Blood Countess decorating my computer desktop. So outdated. By over four hundred years. It was time for an upgrade. Time to go fresh, young, modern.

I clicked on Sean’s picture from the article and set it as my desktop background. Much better.

“Who’s that?” someone would eventually ask.

“The love of my life,” I would tell them.

“Lucky you.”

Yes, that’s what someone would say.

Sean definitely looked better than the Blood Countess. All that blood did absolutely nothing for the woman. She still died in the end, just like everyone else. What a psycho bitch.

Sean smiled at me from my desktop. Reminding me to give it to Doreen, if she asked for it.

Reminding me I didn’t need a hymen.

Reminding me I could handle the Dons and Freddies of the world. Or any other boy my father threw at me.

A denial

I have no idea why Cobain screams “a denial” a gazillion times at the end of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. No one does, actually. That’s the great thing about the song. No one really gets it.

So you can pretend he’s saying anything you want.

It sounds like he’s mumbling “bloody liar” to me. It really does. Listen to it. But then again, Weird Al Yankovic made a good case in his video parody of Nirvana that Cobain was screaming “Sayonara.”

Oh, what the hell.

Cobain was cooked to the gills on drugs. If anything, you have to give him a break and blame the drugs.

So yeah, I’ll cook for you.

Bloody liar

I’ll wash your clothes.

Bloody liar

I’ll have your two and a half brats.

Bloody liar

And suck your cock. Just like a good Hello Kitty.

Bloody liar

Hi, I’m Fiona Yu.

Sayonara

And it’s so very nice to meet you.

Whatever.

Angela S. Choi is a writer who lives in San Francisco, California, where she refuses to be anyone’s mother or hole-in-a-mattress. Born in Hong Kong, she is proficient in the art of profanity in both Cantonese and English. She practiced law until she no longer wanted to live life in six-minute increments, and so took up the pen at the tender age of 30. When she is not writing, she spends her time molesting her fat parakeet, Meatball, who is arguably the best toe-nibbler in the world.
Hello Kitty Must Die
is her debut novel.

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