The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 224 "My God, this is like that old Abbott and Costello routine, 'Who's on First?'"
Start time: 9:26
"My God, this is like that old Abbott and Costello routine, 'Who's on First?'" Garith shouted at his sister and vampire friend.
The two turned to him.
"How is this even remotely like that?" Derrick said.
Garith looked side to side.
"It doesn't," he said. He looked down at the ground. "I just wanted to be a part of the conversation."
Derrick gave a half smile showing his canine that had become longer from yesterday.
end time: 10:29
Okay... It is rather obvious that I was not feeling that one at all. It was a dud, dud, dud, dud. I tried to make it work but I really had nothing come to mind. Instead I got lost in a tumblr vortex of doom. Anyway, I'm just going to go ahead and choose another one because that was rather shameful.
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 69 "I'm here to answer the ad in the paper."
Start time: 10:44
The door to Lynette's house cracked open and a single green eye looked through to the outside world. As the door open further a head sprouted from head with dark black hair and milky white skin around a plump face. If you watch closely she moves out further and inspects her surroundings. They are foreign to her, but she is calm.
A car passes by and she is frightened. The elusive Lynette scurries back into the house and watches through the peephole until all has gotten quiet again. She sighs to herself and laughs. One can only imagine what is going through her very fragile mind at this point. It has been sometimes since the subject has been outside of her house. If it hadn't been the pressure of her online support group she would not have even decided to broach the subject now.
"You can do this," she says to herself.
The lynette tries again. At first her actions are slow going but eventually she winds up outside in a very normal suburban neighborhood. The sky is cloudless and the sun in shining. She looks around at the world's beauty. Her expression is unsure but she stands firm as another car goes by.
Once the vehicle has gone quickly around the corner she shuffles to the car and climbs into her old volkswagon bug. For a moment we see her fumble around through the purse she had packed haphazardly this morning. It has been some time since she's needed the assistance of one.
Like any red blooded woman she finds her keys at the bottom of her purse. She sticks it in the ignition and attempts to start the vehicle.
What she has neglected to think of, as any other red blooded American would, is that since her car has spent many years in the driveway without a start it does not. She tries again and again with the same success rate.
Frustrated she bangs furiously on the steering wheel and rushes back inside the house.
There she rushes about furiously trying to find her house phone. She has an appointment to make and already she will be late. Lynette must see this and has become frantic.
"Hello," she says into the phone, clutching at it with both hands. "I need a taxi. Could you send one right away?"
The voice on the other line says a few unintelligible words and she hangs up.
For the next ten minutes Lynette wanders aimlessly around the house. She checks her appearance in the mirror many times. Sighing to herself she shakes her head. Earlier we heard her feelings about her apprehension to answering the personal ad she had found in the paper.
The leader of the group seemed excited at her approach to moving outside of her confined living. She beamed back at her patient and told her to keep trying.
The driver arrives with a knock and Lynette rushes outside. She hops in the car, looking about nervously. The cabby in the driver seat furrows his thick brow and looks at her with unsure eyes.
"Where to?" He says, in an accent.
"The coffee shop on," Lynette says, she rolls her hand in a circle. It seems she has forgotten the name of the establishment she is meant to meet her date. "Harrowley?" She looks at the cabby's reflection for approval.
"Sure," he says and begins to drive.
Lynette sits back and bites at her thumbnail. She clutches her hefty purse to her stomach and taps her foot wildly.
It was explained that her decision to answer an ad was from a dream she had had a few months back. She shared in the group that it was also the wording of the man's post that had her intrigued.
"It was so," she had said. A few moments pass that elude to her not being able to find the right word. Finally she settles on, "Nice."
The others in the group had asked her to read it but for whatever reason she had refused. She blushed at the mention of it and every group since had inquired.
Lynette finally arrives at the agreed upon location. She pays the cabby who seems relieved to be rid of her and doesn't tip him. Although it is acceptable seeing as how she hasn't been accustomed to the real world for some time. He on other hand drives off in a hurry.
The young girl walks in and finds the man seated in the far corner. On the table before him is a single white daisy, per her request. She stops in her tracks and waits. For a moment it looks as though she might turn and run but the gentlemen sees her and stands, smiling.
"Lila!" He says to her waving her over.
She puts her hand to her mouth and shuffles around to tables to get to him. She immediately gives him her hand and they exchange pleasantries. The young man has tight blonde curls, bright blue eyes, and a beautiful smile.
"I have a quick confession to make," Lynette says.
The young man leans forward and steeples his arms on the table.
"Go ahead," he says.
"My name is actually Lynette. I told you that name because I wasn't sure if I was actually going got make it."
The man raises his eyebrows and he sits back in his chair. His face looks uncertain of what to make of the situation.
"Alright," he says, nodding, "Well my name is still Greg."
The two laugh.
"Good," she says.
Showing posts with label writers book of matches. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writers book of matches. Show all posts
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Prompt 14 of 31
Tonight I will be pulling double duty to make up for yesterday's missed prompt. It's funny how life just gets in the way. Ha, what am I talking about, life. I saw the conjuring yesterday. Fantastic movie. During the course of the movie I realized why I don't see horror movies in the theatre. (I tend to only watch them at home.) I tend to scream and convulse like a spaz. It's really comical for others, not so much for me. Either way, it was fun. I'll do anything for a laugh. Well, as long as it's on my terms.
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. "A man learns that what he thought was chronic heartburn is really terminal cancer."
Start time: 11:17
Shella Fidgeted with her cell phone while she sat in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Her husband rick was seated beside her; hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together in a single fist. Her sapphire eyes looked at him and then she frowned. Her manicured hand went to his back and rubbed tiny circles. At time she lifted her palm from his back and it was just her nails. He chuckled and turned to her with a sad smile.
"I had completely forgotten," she said.
She did it again and he jerked away.
"So I heard from my mother today," she said matter of fact. She pocketed her cellphone and then turned towards him.
"What'd she have to say," he said, peering at her over his shoulder.
Shella shrugged a shoulder and looked at her nails.
"I guess my brother is back in rehab. My dad caught him trying to steal my mother's jewelry. He broke down crying right then and there and confessed the whole thing."
She paused and looked at him with imploring eyes. She hoped this different change of topic would get his mind off of the whole situation.
When he sat back and sighed she knew it had worked. She kept the smile that wanted to play on her lips safely tucked away. Rick rested his head against the wall and left his hands, fingers sprawled, on his knees.
"Poor Jackson," he said.
His mahogany eyes searched the air before him.
Shella's brow furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"I can't imagine what that would be like. You know how my dad was an alcoholic. I say that my mother made excuses for him when I was a kid but she believed he could change. She wanted to know that he would start being the man she had met. I just don't see how your father can deal with that. If Jeremy ever becomes an addict I don't know what I would do. It'd break my heart."
"What about my brother?"
Rick looked at her, pressed his lips together, and shrugged.
"We are the master's of our own destiny."
Hot anger climbed up her face and turned her cheeks a rosy red.
"You're one to talk. This heart burn of yours is all your doing. If you didn't eat all those fatty foods on your lunch it wouldn't happen."
Rick leaned forward again and regained his previous pose.
Shella hid her eyes behind her hand. She felt like such an idiot.
Well, that was pointless, she thought.
She dropped her hand into her lap and leaned to his shoulder.
"Honey, I'm sure it's nothing. We're just getting a second opinion per doctor laurel's request. Okay?"
She kissed his shoulder.
"The antacids, the meds, do not work, Shell."
"Sometimes things can be so severe that you need to see a specialist. That's why we're here."
Rick rolled his eyes.
Shella sat back and studied him. Her mind knew what was wrong already. Her heart refused to believe. She kept telling herself the same lies she told about her brother. Except he could help his problem.
She smiled weakly to herself and then looked down at her thumbs. She couldn't believe she was wishing that he was just an addict. Of all the things that could happen to him it had to be this.
"Rick Torrent," The nurse said, her arm wrapped around the clip board.
The two got up and headed to the exam room for another agonizing wait.
Rick stayed silent the whole time. He just stared at his feet, bouncing the toe of his boots on foot at a time.
She had seen him do that many times before, like when they were waiting to see if they were in fact having a boy. Or there was the time that his mother had been found beaten, almost to a pulp, and they were waiting in the lobby of the ER. That had been back when they were still in high school.
Her heart began to ache from the thoughts of their love's life time and she focused again on his feet. She picked apart his shoes, his gestures, everything to keep herself from thinking that which she already knew.
The doctor swooped in and immediately headed to the sink and washed his hands.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Torrent."
"How're you today?"
Shella always wondered why a doctor asked a patient that. It seemed like such a silly question. Well obviously we're terrible. We're here to see you, She thought.
"Just waiting on those results." Rick said. He sighed and looked at the doctor. "Doctor Laurel couldn't make heads or tails of it so it's prolonged this for far too long."
The doctor produced a pair of spectacles and put them on.
"I certainly can understand that."
Then get on with it!
The doctor pulled up the rolling stool and sat down. He pulled out a pen, clicked it and began writing notes. All of his actions seemed as thought they were half speed.
Shella fidgeted nervously in place.
"I'm afraid that it's not acid reflux."
Shella's breath caught in her chest.
"You have cancer on the lining of your asophogaus. It's caused by HPV. Most men don't ever show symptoms. They just carry the disease."
Shella's brow furrowed.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's alright. It's not life threatening. We will need to perform surgery quickly though."
Shella forced a smile.
"I see."
Shella stood, clutching her purse at her waist.
"Will you please excuse me. I'll just let you two gentlemen talk this out."
Shella rushed through the doctor's office, out the main corridor and down a flight of stairs faster than she could have ever thought possible. Before she knew it she stood at their lifted black truck. She stopped and studied it for a moment. Her eyes peering at every detail.
She flew to the driver's side door and wrenched it open. It didn't matter that the corner of the door cracked the window of the vehicle next to hers. She was on a mission. She tore through the center console, ripping out everything she got her well manicured hands on. When that didn't present any results she moved to the glove box, then under the seats. She was about to start ripping up the carpet floor when Rick came outside.
"What are you doing?" he said.
Shella looked at him. Her sapphire eyes were a hurricane and it was headed right for him.
"How the hell do you have HPV, Richard Torrent?"
"From you, I imagine," he said.
Shella smiled, her tounge prodding her left canine.
"Is that so," she said. "Well I know I haven't had anything to report and do you know how I know? I get this," she gestured at the apex of her legs, "I get this checked by a physician every goddamn month. If I were to have anything she would notice!"
Shella's voice had grown steadily louder as she spoke. The passersby all slowed their journey to where they were going and watched the spectacle. Rick looked around nervously.
"Honey-"
"Don't you honey me, Richard. Or should I say Dick!"
Shella hopped down from the truck and then slammed the door. Straightening her short denim skirt she walked away as fast as her legs would carry her. Although much to her delight Rick followed right behind.
"Honey, I haven't cheated on you." he said to her back.
She pretended to ignore him.
"Who would want to even try? All the women in the office know that you have a mean streak a mile long. You have weapons on your finger tips!"
Shella cracked a smile and all it did was enfuriate her more. She balled her fists, stopped abruptly, and spun to meet him face to face.
"Then tell me something I don't know."
Rick opened his mouth to speak but couldn't seem to find the words. He hung his head and shook it back and forth.
"Do you remember when we were in high school-"
"It was only six years ago, Rick, I'm sure I can remember that far-"
Rick put a hand over her mouth.
"Just listen for a second. I haven't cheated on you while we've been married. There was this one time in tenth grade when we broke up and I saw Susie Lee. We went on a couple of dates but I just wanted you."
Slutty Susie Lee she thought.
"That was the only time I've been with any other woman."
Relief washed over her shoulders and the fire receded quickly back into her chest. She relaxed for only a moment until she thought what this meant. But then her curiosity got the better of her.
"So, if you have it, why don't I?"
The corner of Rick's mouth tried to touch his ear, as he rubbed the back of his head.
"Well," he said, "Honey, I've never... Done anything with my mouth."
Shella looked around nervously. HIs voice was already low but it wasn't low enough. If someone should hear she would be mortified.
"Yeah, because it's disgusting. And thank god I feel that way or I'd have it. Stupid, slutty, Susie Lee."
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. "A man learns that what he thought was chronic heartburn is really terminal cancer."
Start time: 11:17
Shella Fidgeted with her cell phone while she sat in the waiting room of the doctor's office. Her husband rick was seated beside her; hunched over, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped together in a single fist. Her sapphire eyes looked at him and then she frowned. Her manicured hand went to his back and rubbed tiny circles. At time she lifted her palm from his back and it was just her nails. He chuckled and turned to her with a sad smile.
"I had completely forgotten," she said.
She did it again and he jerked away.
"So I heard from my mother today," she said matter of fact. She pocketed her cellphone and then turned towards him.
"What'd she have to say," he said, peering at her over his shoulder.
Shella shrugged a shoulder and looked at her nails.
"I guess my brother is back in rehab. My dad caught him trying to steal my mother's jewelry. He broke down crying right then and there and confessed the whole thing."
She paused and looked at him with imploring eyes. She hoped this different change of topic would get his mind off of the whole situation.
When he sat back and sighed she knew it had worked. She kept the smile that wanted to play on her lips safely tucked away. Rick rested his head against the wall and left his hands, fingers sprawled, on his knees.
"Poor Jackson," he said.
His mahogany eyes searched the air before him.
Shella's brow furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"I can't imagine what that would be like. You know how my dad was an alcoholic. I say that my mother made excuses for him when I was a kid but she believed he could change. She wanted to know that he would start being the man she had met. I just don't see how your father can deal with that. If Jeremy ever becomes an addict I don't know what I would do. It'd break my heart."
"What about my brother?"
Rick looked at her, pressed his lips together, and shrugged.
"We are the master's of our own destiny."
Hot anger climbed up her face and turned her cheeks a rosy red.
"You're one to talk. This heart burn of yours is all your doing. If you didn't eat all those fatty foods on your lunch it wouldn't happen."
Rick leaned forward again and regained his previous pose.
Shella hid her eyes behind her hand. She felt like such an idiot.
Well, that was pointless, she thought.
She dropped her hand into her lap and leaned to his shoulder.
"Honey, I'm sure it's nothing. We're just getting a second opinion per doctor laurel's request. Okay?"
She kissed his shoulder.
"The antacids, the meds, do not work, Shell."
"Sometimes things can be so severe that you need to see a specialist. That's why we're here."
Rick rolled his eyes.
Shella sat back and studied him. Her mind knew what was wrong already. Her heart refused to believe. She kept telling herself the same lies she told about her brother. Except he could help his problem.
She smiled weakly to herself and then looked down at her thumbs. She couldn't believe she was wishing that he was just an addict. Of all the things that could happen to him it had to be this.
"Rick Torrent," The nurse said, her arm wrapped around the clip board.
The two got up and headed to the exam room for another agonizing wait.
Rick stayed silent the whole time. He just stared at his feet, bouncing the toe of his boots on foot at a time.
She had seen him do that many times before, like when they were waiting to see if they were in fact having a boy. Or there was the time that his mother had been found beaten, almost to a pulp, and they were waiting in the lobby of the ER. That had been back when they were still in high school.
Her heart began to ache from the thoughts of their love's life time and she focused again on his feet. She picked apart his shoes, his gestures, everything to keep herself from thinking that which she already knew.
The doctor swooped in and immediately headed to the sink and washed his hands.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Torrent."
"How're you today?"
Shella always wondered why a doctor asked a patient that. It seemed like such a silly question. Well obviously we're terrible. We're here to see you, She thought.
"Just waiting on those results." Rick said. He sighed and looked at the doctor. "Doctor Laurel couldn't make heads or tails of it so it's prolonged this for far too long."
The doctor produced a pair of spectacles and put them on.
"I certainly can understand that."
Then get on with it!
The doctor pulled up the rolling stool and sat down. He pulled out a pen, clicked it and began writing notes. All of his actions seemed as thought they were half speed.
Shella fidgeted nervously in place.
"I'm afraid that it's not acid reflux."
Shella's breath caught in her chest.
"You have cancer on the lining of your asophogaus. It's caused by HPV. Most men don't ever show symptoms. They just carry the disease."
Shella's brow furrowed.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's alright. It's not life threatening. We will need to perform surgery quickly though."
Shella forced a smile.
"I see."
Shella stood, clutching her purse at her waist.
"Will you please excuse me. I'll just let you two gentlemen talk this out."
Shella rushed through the doctor's office, out the main corridor and down a flight of stairs faster than she could have ever thought possible. Before she knew it she stood at their lifted black truck. She stopped and studied it for a moment. Her eyes peering at every detail.
She flew to the driver's side door and wrenched it open. It didn't matter that the corner of the door cracked the window of the vehicle next to hers. She was on a mission. She tore through the center console, ripping out everything she got her well manicured hands on. When that didn't present any results she moved to the glove box, then under the seats. She was about to start ripping up the carpet floor when Rick came outside.
"What are you doing?" he said.
Shella looked at him. Her sapphire eyes were a hurricane and it was headed right for him.
"How the hell do you have HPV, Richard Torrent?"
"From you, I imagine," he said.
Shella smiled, her tounge prodding her left canine.
"Is that so," she said. "Well I know I haven't had anything to report and do you know how I know? I get this," she gestured at the apex of her legs, "I get this checked by a physician every goddamn month. If I were to have anything she would notice!"
Shella's voice had grown steadily louder as she spoke. The passersby all slowed their journey to where they were going and watched the spectacle. Rick looked around nervously.
"Honey-"
"Don't you honey me, Richard. Or should I say Dick!"
Shella hopped down from the truck and then slammed the door. Straightening her short denim skirt she walked away as fast as her legs would carry her. Although much to her delight Rick followed right behind.
"Honey, I haven't cheated on you." he said to her back.
She pretended to ignore him.
"Who would want to even try? All the women in the office know that you have a mean streak a mile long. You have weapons on your finger tips!"
Shella cracked a smile and all it did was enfuriate her more. She balled her fists, stopped abruptly, and spun to meet him face to face.
"Then tell me something I don't know."
Rick opened his mouth to speak but couldn't seem to find the words. He hung his head and shook it back and forth.
"Do you remember when we were in high school-"
"It was only six years ago, Rick, I'm sure I can remember that far-"
Rick put a hand over her mouth.
"Just listen for a second. I haven't cheated on you while we've been married. There was this one time in tenth grade when we broke up and I saw Susie Lee. We went on a couple of dates but I just wanted you."
Slutty Susie Lee she thought.
"That was the only time I've been with any other woman."
Relief washed over her shoulders and the fire receded quickly back into her chest. She relaxed for only a moment until she thought what this meant. But then her curiosity got the better of her.
"So, if you have it, why don't I?"
The corner of Rick's mouth tried to touch his ear, as he rubbed the back of his head.
"Well," he said, "Honey, I've never... Done anything with my mouth."
Shella looked around nervously. HIs voice was already low but it wasn't low enough. If someone should hear she would be mortified.
"Yeah, because it's disgusting. And thank god I feel that way or I'd have it. Stupid, slutty, Susie Lee."
Monday, July 8, 2013
Prompt 7 of 31
The Writer's Book of Matches pg. 68 "You are riding a crowded subway with a huge wad of cash in your inside pocket."
start time: 10:24
I know I shouldn't, but I keep looking down regardless. I check and recheck to make sure that the bump isn't visible from the outside. The more I look the more in begins to protrude from my left breast pocket, hidden within my trench coat. My heart starts to pound in my ears and my breathing is quick and deep.
I look up and around at the subway. I try not to meet anyone's eye but I invariably do. People have that sensor in their brain that tells me they're being looked at. I meet the eye of a pregnant woman nursing another baby in her arms. The cloudy eyes of a man looks up at me from behind his crime novel. Then a man leaning against the banister by the automatic doors. His hands are tucked securely into his armpits, his arms tight around his chest. Each one acknowledges my glare and returns to their task.
They know. I know they know.
BUt do they? They don't know that I had stabbed a man in the alley to get it. NO one would expect a man with a suite and tie, pressed slacks, and a cashmere scarf to be a culprit of such evil. Neither would I if I saw such a man. But as I catch the look of my own eyes in the reflection in the glass across the crowded subway car I see a killer.
I quickly look away. I see the evil lurking in the eyes. If I can see it as can they. I look down and keep it down.
This is my second kill. Completely at random. I've watched so many crime dramas and I wonder what my motive it. What is my M.O.
I shake my head. I don't have one. I'm not going to do this again. I said I would do it til I had enough money to put back in the petty cash.
I close my eyes tight.
Fuck. I am an imbezzeler too. To top it off I used the cash to pay the credit card I had used on the business retreat in Las Vegas. I was supposed to be building a bond with my team instead I built a bond with the madam and three of her girls. Crystal. Revy. Caramel.
God, if my wife finds out...
I shift nervously.
The elderly woman in front of me glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I look at her and force a smile and nod. She does the same before moving her shopping bag to the other hand.
"I'm not a bad guy," I tell her.
She looks at me confused.
"I know what you're thinking and I mean you no harm."
"Good," she says and takes a small step away from me.
I look up and around. Everyone is looking at me.
"I'm a good guy." I say to everyone.
Everyone is still. There eyes blinking like Christmas lights.
I lower my head again. I shut my eyes tight and stare into the darkness.
The subway begins to screech to a halt. The overhead speaker announces the stop under the sound of static. If I didn't hear it everyday I wouldn't have known it was my stop. I quickly get off. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets I rush through the station and up the steps to the streets above. The winter chill is growing. My breath steams out of my like a locomotive as I scurry through the streets.
Then in a blur I see a hand shoot out like a viper and grip my arm. It rips me into the alley.
The hand multiplies and grip my lapels and throw me up against the wall.
"Hey there, Justin," Big Bowie says.
I look into his cold blue eyes. They narrow at me as he sneers.
I look to my right at the foot traffic hustling past uncaring.
"Where is my money?" he says close to me. HIs breath hot and humid fills my visison and nostrils. It reeks of garlic, cheese, and bile.
I gag.
He shoves me against the wall again and repeats himself, louder. As if that will somehow produce better results. I never understood that.
"Let me go," I say.
"Oh," he says cheerily, "So you do. That's good to hear."
"I didn't-"
"I know that Mickey wouldn't like to know you flaked on him for a third time." He holds up three fingers. "You're out."
He begins to reach into his pocket.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash. This wasn't what it was for but I could die.
I slap the wad to his chest. He fails to grab them and they flutter to the damp asphalt.
He sniffs and leans forward to pick it up. That's when I pull the knife from my pocket it and plunge it into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He screams and the passerbys look into the dim light of the alley, but they fail to stop.
I quickly pull it out and he stands up. I shove the knife into his gut and use my free hand to remove him from the blade and simultaneously shoving him backward. He stumbles and falls.
I drop to my hands and knees and pick up the money. I shove each bill into my pocket.
I crawl like a dog to him and dig into his pockets. He tries to fight me but groans and screams in agony.
"Help!" He screams.
My hands slither up to his mouth and muffle his screams. I follow them up and climb onto his chest. That's when I start to punch him with a left and right. I hit one after the other putting every ounce of fear, panic, pain, suffering, anger into that his cries begin to stop and his eyes begin to bleed.
I pull back exhausted. My arms stiff. I catch my breath and catch sight of the crowd gathering at the mouth of the alley.
"What're you doing?" Someone says.
"Someone call 9-1-1!"
I get to my feet and head down the alley.
I hear footsteps of someone chasing after me. Two sets. There pattern becomes intermitten.
I try to look but I can't see. I stumble over some debris but catch myself before I can fall.
Their paces match mine. I can even hear them huffing away.
There is a grunt and I am tackled to the street. The money gushes out of my as a fall. They flutter all around me as green confetti. The man spins me around and I look up into the face of my neighbor and brother-in-law.
"Justin?" He says, his eyes wide.
I am caught.
start time: 10:24
I know I shouldn't, but I keep looking down regardless. I check and recheck to make sure that the bump isn't visible from the outside. The more I look the more in begins to protrude from my left breast pocket, hidden within my trench coat. My heart starts to pound in my ears and my breathing is quick and deep.
I look up and around at the subway. I try not to meet anyone's eye but I invariably do. People have that sensor in their brain that tells me they're being looked at. I meet the eye of a pregnant woman nursing another baby in her arms. The cloudy eyes of a man looks up at me from behind his crime novel. Then a man leaning against the banister by the automatic doors. His hands are tucked securely into his armpits, his arms tight around his chest. Each one acknowledges my glare and returns to their task.
They know. I know they know.
BUt do they? They don't know that I had stabbed a man in the alley to get it. NO one would expect a man with a suite and tie, pressed slacks, and a cashmere scarf to be a culprit of such evil. Neither would I if I saw such a man. But as I catch the look of my own eyes in the reflection in the glass across the crowded subway car I see a killer.
I quickly look away. I see the evil lurking in the eyes. If I can see it as can they. I look down and keep it down.
This is my second kill. Completely at random. I've watched so many crime dramas and I wonder what my motive it. What is my M.O.
I shake my head. I don't have one. I'm not going to do this again. I said I would do it til I had enough money to put back in the petty cash.
I close my eyes tight.
Fuck. I am an imbezzeler too. To top it off I used the cash to pay the credit card I had used on the business retreat in Las Vegas. I was supposed to be building a bond with my team instead I built a bond with the madam and three of her girls. Crystal. Revy. Caramel.
God, if my wife finds out...
I shift nervously.
The elderly woman in front of me glances at me out of the corner of her eye. I look at her and force a smile and nod. She does the same before moving her shopping bag to the other hand.
"I'm not a bad guy," I tell her.
She looks at me confused.
"I know what you're thinking and I mean you no harm."
"Good," she says and takes a small step away from me.
I look up and around. Everyone is looking at me.
"I'm a good guy." I say to everyone.
Everyone is still. There eyes blinking like Christmas lights.
I lower my head again. I shut my eyes tight and stare into the darkness.
The subway begins to screech to a halt. The overhead speaker announces the stop under the sound of static. If I didn't hear it everyday I wouldn't have known it was my stop. I quickly get off. Shoving my hands into my coat pockets I rush through the station and up the steps to the streets above. The winter chill is growing. My breath steams out of my like a locomotive as I scurry through the streets.
Then in a blur I see a hand shoot out like a viper and grip my arm. It rips me into the alley.
The hand multiplies and grip my lapels and throw me up against the wall.
"Hey there, Justin," Big Bowie says.
I look into his cold blue eyes. They narrow at me as he sneers.
I look to my right at the foot traffic hustling past uncaring.
"Where is my money?" he says close to me. HIs breath hot and humid fills my visison and nostrils. It reeks of garlic, cheese, and bile.
I gag.
He shoves me against the wall again and repeats himself, louder. As if that will somehow produce better results. I never understood that.
"Let me go," I say.
"Oh," he says cheerily, "So you do. That's good to hear."
"I didn't-"
"I know that Mickey wouldn't like to know you flaked on him for a third time." He holds up three fingers. "You're out."
He begins to reach into his pocket.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of cash. This wasn't what it was for but I could die.
I slap the wad to his chest. He fails to grab them and they flutter to the damp asphalt.
He sniffs and leans forward to pick it up. That's when I pull the knife from my pocket it and plunge it into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He screams and the passerbys look into the dim light of the alley, but they fail to stop.
I quickly pull it out and he stands up. I shove the knife into his gut and use my free hand to remove him from the blade and simultaneously shoving him backward. He stumbles and falls.
I drop to my hands and knees and pick up the money. I shove each bill into my pocket.
I crawl like a dog to him and dig into his pockets. He tries to fight me but groans and screams in agony.
"Help!" He screams.
My hands slither up to his mouth and muffle his screams. I follow them up and climb onto his chest. That's when I start to punch him with a left and right. I hit one after the other putting every ounce of fear, panic, pain, suffering, anger into that his cries begin to stop and his eyes begin to bleed.
I pull back exhausted. My arms stiff. I catch my breath and catch sight of the crowd gathering at the mouth of the alley.
"What're you doing?" Someone says.
"Someone call 9-1-1!"
I get to my feet and head down the alley.
I hear footsteps of someone chasing after me. Two sets. There pattern becomes intermitten.
I try to look but I can't see. I stumble over some debris but catch myself before I can fall.
Their paces match mine. I can even hear them huffing away.
There is a grunt and I am tackled to the street. The money gushes out of my as a fall. They flutter all around me as green confetti. The man spins me around and I look up into the face of my neighbor and brother-in-law.
"Justin?" He says, his eyes wide.
I am caught.
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