EPT
Everybody's got to break sometime. A guy like me can only take the abuse for so long before something inside snaps. And when it does, there's fireworks. The mind's set ablaze as everything resurfaces, and tonight I'm torching the world. I toy with a shard of glass as memory after horrible memory race through my head. The ill advice she'd give me, her laugh when I'd crash because of it. The way she teased me, used me as a means of entertainment. I'm the asshole side character in this twisted theatre, and I've had enough. If I can keep from killin' myself long enough to get the job done, it's the final curtain call.
The dykes down the block have always been dependable. They give me shelter from the rain, keep me full of coke to kill the pain. Somewhat of a surprise, the way those two turned out. I've known them since we were kids. We used to play baseball, their team against mine. They'd always win. Somewhere down the road they'd gotten mixed up in some heavy shit, stuff I ain't got the balls to run with. They'll fix me up with a line and a nine, and send me on my way. I grab my coat, and the dog shows up, food dish in his mouth. It doesn't matter how fucked up I am, I can't let the poor guy starve. He's been faithful. I fill his dish a bit over the top, and head out down the street. The walk seems to take an eternity. I don't notice the cold biting at my near-bald head. I reach the door at the dykes' place and knock, it swings open.
"Jesus, you look like shit." She eyes me up and down. She looks like she's waiting for an explanation, but I didn't come here to chat.
"I need a gun. No questions." I barely recognize my own voice. The passiveness is gone. It's no longer timid, submissive. It's the voice of a man with a score to settle. She stares at me, obviously concerned. She tells me to wait where I am, and disappears inside. I hear mumbling on the other side of the door, and she appears again holding a piece and a box of bullets. She hands me the gun.
"How many?", she asks me, as she roots through the box.
"I only need one." She stops rummaging and leans against the door frame. Her eyes lock with mine.
"...What's going on? What're you doing?" I ignore her. I reach into the box and fish out a single round, and place it in the chamber. I stuff the gun into my jacket, about face, and walk down the steps. I start towards the finish line, the place where this whole nightmare ends. I don't even hear the dykes calling after me.
During the short walk to her house, I can't help but grin. It's not that I got a lot to be grinnin' about, but the idea of ending this disgusting ritual of torture and self-loathing was comforting. I reach her place, and she's standing on the driveway, cigarrette in her hand, leaning on her beat-up Pontiac. I pull the pistol out of my jacket and slow my strides, revelling in her last moments. I catch her eye, and she shoots me a fiendish grin. She flicks her cigarrette onto the pavement, and takes a few steps to meet me. "That yellow shirt has always looked horrendous on you." Satan in a blue dress, this woman. She glances casually at what I'm carrying. She knows what it is, she knows what it's for, and she knows why.
"What are you going to do with that?" She chuckles ever so slightly, shakes her head. I raise my arm and hold the gun in front of me. She laughs again, and my grip tightens. My finger moves to the trigger.
"What are you thinking, kid? That's a dangerous toy, you know." She laughs again, then takes a step forward. She grabs my wrist, and points the barrel of my gun at her forehead. My hand quivers uncontrollably.
"Well, come on! This is what you came for, isn't it? 'I'm going to show her, I'm going to kill that bitch'?" Click. "You can't do it, you don't have the fucking guts. You need me, to fill the holes in your miserable life, you wishy-washy son of a --" Boom.
I fall to my knees before she hits the ground. My arms go limp, the gun clatters on the pavement. It's over, she's dead. The mind games, the emotional torment, it's over. Her blood rushes down the driveway around me. I stare at her corpse, and I begin to weep. I don't even try to move the body. I just haul myself to my feet, and stagger home. I feel vindicated, but her last words ring in my head. She had been right about something, I did need her. Without her, I have nothing to occupy myself, I have nothing to loathe. I'm devoid of emotion, stripped of ambition. I have nothing left.
I enter my front door, and I can already hear the sirens. Out to the garage, to fetch a rope. I fill the dog's dish once more. Down into the basement. I fish a small picture of her out of a drawer, and say a last goodbye. The tears stop. I string myself up, and kick the chair.
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