Burn Down The Night by Craig Kee Strete Page B

armpits and drag her upright. She tries to
roll herself into a ball like a porcupine protecting its belly. I end up holding her in the air
'cause she won't put her legs down to support herself. The weight almost tum­bles me over
backwards on my ass. Jesus H. Christ!
    I stumble forward,
can't support us both, and her back bangs hard against the edge of the table. It hurts and her
legs come down like aircraft landing gear. The coat drops out from under her poncho.
    I smile at her
sarcastically, and with exaggerated politeness say, "Thank you!"
    I bend over to
pick up the coat and she kicks me in the face. Hard.
    I fall over
backwards, my head slamming into the kitchen floor. She makes a dive for the coat and starts
scooting for the door. I have just enough presence of mind to reach out, grab her by one bony
ankle and yank it out from under her.
    She falls over on
me and comes up yelling, kicking and going for my face with her fists. I slap her once, trying to
fend her off and hit her harder than I intended right across the eyes.
    Stunned, she rolls
off me.
    I get up slowly,
holding my nose, my hand getting sticky with my own blood. Think a couple of my teeth are
loose.
    Feel my front
teeth. Think one is definitely loose. I tell her angrily, sincerely, "I ought to break both of
your goddamn legs."
    "Bastard!" She
tries to slap me. I don't believe her. She must have seen too many John Wayne movies or
something. I catch her hand and twist it until she gasps with pain. Not trying to be cruel, just
trying to hold my own. I don't put on much pressure, just enough to make her feel like
quitting.
    I let go and she
slumps to the floor.
    She's crying now.
Probably not because I hurt her but because she's afraid she's not going to have enough money for
a fix. I don't understand how we do the things we do to each other and to ourselves.
    I back off a few
steps, holding the coat, just watching the tears flowing down her half-starved cheeks. Her wrist
is turning purple. Guess I was a little too heavy-handed. Didn't mean to savage her. Christ! What
am I, a fucking cop?
    Still I find
myself standing over her, holding my aching face, asking, "Is that all you took?"
    "That's all, you
crummy bastard," she sobs, holding her wrist. Save me from junkie children who've slept in all
the rooms of hell.
    She gets up slow,
starts to move around me. I see she's still got a suspicious bulge under her poncho, tucked down
behind her shirt. Not being no cop, I should let her go, but my face feels like raw meat and I
haven't wasted all my anger yet. I should let her go but I don't. I reach out and grab her by the
throat, but not trying to be too rough. I tilt her head back far enough that it hurts a little,
just a little. "I think you're lying."
    I tap her stomach
with my other hand. Something hard under there.
    "What's that? You
trying to give birth to a night bank deposit box?"
    Her fingers come
up, sharp claws going for my eyes. This is my night to get ripped to shreds. Well, screw it! I
lose control. I turn away but not quick enough. Feel her nails go under my right eye, raking down
the side of my face. Feel the blood welling under the skin.
    "Why, you bitch!"
I shake her like a dog shakes a dead rat, her head flopping back and forth like a broken doll's
head. Near feel like killing her but I see the madness in her eyes, the drugs dancing down deep
inside her and making her what she is, and you can't fight against that.
    Besides, I never
hit a girl before. Till now. Don't like the feeling at all. I must be a little flipped
out.
    I push her away
from me, understanding for the first time. She's really just a little girl who's dead inside.
Accidentally, my hand tangles in her poncho, brushes against her cold little-girl breasts. A
cascade of wallets and watches comes tumbling out. This little zombie's been busy
tonight.
    She falls on the
pile on the floor, eyes glazed, blood dripping from a tiny cut on her