“So?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Is – is that good enough to let me live?”

The blonde woman looked at me like a was a science experiment. She cocked her head to one side and weighed my worth. I held my breath.

The gun barrel aimed at my jaw. It shook.

I wanted to believe that was a sign of hesitation, which meant hope.

I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. I was so wired that each of my own heartbeats shook me.

I wondered what getting shot would feel like.

Probably like a concentrated baseball bat strike. I would feel my teeth knocked out. If your last moments are bitingly painful, do you reach toward unconsciousness, even though it means never patching up what was said during your last fight with a loved one?

I focused on sitting still. For some reason, I believed that would help.

“Okay.” Her word shook me; I’d been expecting a bullet, and the stimulus nearly knocked me out. “But I’m keeping the gun aimed at your head the whole time.”

I let out a breath that I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Okay,” I answered, my voice trembling. “But – well – why didn’t you just shoot Santa?”

Her shoulder fell. “You think I didn’t try?” She wiped a tear on her shirtsleeve. “He stood beyond the range that I could reach with my hands tied. The fucker knew exactly what he was doing.”

I nodded slowly. “Your arms are free now, though.”

“And I won’t hesitate to fire. I’m so sorry – I hope you know that.”

I began to stand up.

“But not sorry enough to spare you, if that’s what it comes to,” she answered.

We gazed at one another. I knew then that we each wanted to cry, but were both so far beyond shattered that we lacked the capacity for such an escape.

I broke eye contact and leaned forward, pushing Jerry’s charred corpse off of my lap. Have you ever tasted French onion soup that was just too hot? The gooey surface stretches across everything it touches, burning any exposed skin with its scalding touch. Jerry was like that; his burnt skin parted from his body like a rich mixture of Swiss gruyere and mozzarella, clinging to my hands and thighs as it sloughed off. The slightest touch scalded my skin, adhering to it like rubber cement. The exposed flesh beneath was the smeared red paste of hot marinara, spattering across every available surface before what remained of his corpse pitched backward. The rest of his body smacked against the floor, dissolving into an amorphous blob now that his skin no longer enclosed the meat sack.

He smelled like a pungent mixture of HoneyBaked Ham and the terrified excavation of bowels that had been liberated by fear and fire.

“This is your last chance.”

I snapped my attention upward and stared at the blonde woman with the gun. “What?”

“I’ve told you three times to cut yourself loose and stand. I won’t say it a fourth.”

“Sorry!” I stammered, reaching around in panic. “Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts and didn’t hear you – I – the knife is just under the seat, right? Should I use that? Of course. Hang on, let me reach for it – just give me a second, please – that’s okay, right? Okay, I’m doing it now, please don’t shoot – I’ve got it in my hand, now I’m cutting one string away – now here’s the other one-”

“I don’t need you to narrate your life,” she snapped. “Just finish and stand.”

“I’m sorry, I blabber when I get nervous, and the gun you’re pointing at my stomach makes me very-”

“Shut up. Stand.”

I pushed the cut ropes away and got shakily to my feet.

She nodded.

That was the moment that everything got real. When you’re trying to survive the next few seconds, your mind can shut everything else off. But the promises I made felt very different now that I had to pay them in full.

“Wait,” I stammered. My voice felt like a brittle leaf. “We still haven’t done it yet. It’s not to late.”

She looked at me with icy blue bombardier’s eyes and shook her head.

I knew then that there was no turning back.

My breath hitched once, but I had no capacity to cry. I realized that I never would again, that some part of me had forever been left behind in that chair.

One step at a time, I stalked over to the man in the black suit, the man who had cut off his finger with garden shears. My shoes make a squish squish sound in the shallow pool of charcoal blood that Jerry had left on the floor.

I stared at the man, who was both blurry and shockingly clear all at once. He looked like a mannequin; his body was white and still. A stream of viscous blood dripped in a steady waterfall from his severed finger, and a wide pool of the liquid lay beneath his chair. My heart leapt at the idea that he might be dead already.

Then his glassy eyes rolled toward me. He tried to speak, but his voice was almost too raspy to hear.

He smiled. “We survived. Thanks for coming to cut me loose, man.”

I wanted to cry. I wanted to break. But there was nothing in me whole enough to provide such a release.

He saw it in my expression.

“No, man, just – hey, there’s no reason to hurt me, just walk away if you – wait – wait – wait, please wait-” He pressed his neck against his chest so that I couldn’t reach his throat. “Please, not now,” he whispered. “All of this made me realize why I want to live, I need to tell my sister I’m sorry – please, I just have to live long enough – wait, I-”

Nausea rose in my throat as I finally got the exacto knife into the side of his neck. He flinched, exposing, more neck, and I hit him again. I couldn’t help suppress the thought that this is so easy, that human skin offers so little resistance to knives that it’s a wonder we don’t kill each other more often.

It’s fucked up. But I couldn’t stop; I could only marvel at just how fucked up it all really is.

Movies portray deaths, even gruesome ones, as somewhat glorious. But this was just messy. Once I couldn’t bear the thought of stabbing him anymore, I stepped back to watch his final minutes.

There was no dignity. He convulsed, pissed his pants, and stared at me with deep frustration and soft confusion. I was grateful on his behalf when it ended.

I dropped the exacto knife onto the floor. Blood muffled the sound.

“And there you have it,” I said to the blonde woman behind me. I could feel her gun pointed at the back of my skull. “Now we both have unspeakable secrets to hold over one another.” I wiped my face, inadvertently smearing the man’s blood across my lips. “Is that enough to let me live?”

Now you see why the Valium’s not sufficient.

The bleach blocked a few hours of memory, but unfortunately, I still woke up. I’m going to mix it with ammonia in hopes that the mixture will be potent enough to erase awareness of what I am.

If it doesn’t work, I’ll finish telling about my experience.

EDIT: It didn't work

FB

BD

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