time?”
“This time,” I said, “yes, I’m pretty certain he’s dead.”
“I don’t know,” she kissed my cheek. “You might have to kill him again.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking, if she believed me or thought this was a joke. Either way, I didn’t care, just talking about it seemed to lift a pressure from my shoulders, even if she didn’t believe me.
“No,” I shook my head centimeters from her lips. “No. Nonono. No. I’m not a murderer.”
“No,” she said, “you’re not. But you did kill someone in order to save a pretty girl.”
“I never said she was pretty.”
“Was she pretty?”
“She…” I pictured the blonde’s crystal blue eyes. “She was pretty, yes. I guess you could say she was pretty.”
“See,” Dixie said. “And fighting for a pretty girl doesn’t make you a killer. It makes you a hero.”
Her breath caressed my lips. I wanted to tell her she was pretty, but I froze, transfixed by her.
“I like you, Jacob,” her mouth felt buttery; soft with Chap Stick. She kissed me. Our teeth clicked together and her tongue, smooth and rough all at once flicked the tip of my own.
Her fingers ran through my hair. Flakes of dead skin glided away from my scalp. The air filled with them. Swarms of discarded pieces of myself swam along the fan’s current, pulling back as the air stilled.
“Ugh…” Eat’em bellowed, “I bet she tastes like raw meat.”
She traced my ear with her fingertips. Through her purple locks I could read every Post-It as if at once. My peripheral vision widened. The world became too clear to cope with.
Her hand dropped to my jawbone, ran down my neck and found my collarbone.
“Barf!” the demon bemoaned. He leaned onto my arm, propped on the biology book. I tensed under the prickle of hundreds of tiny quills. They were more hedgehog-like than porcupine, the tips couldn’t puncture flesh, but they were imposing enough to ward off curious animals. “You’re going to get a disease. Herpes. Gonorrhea. AIDS. Chlamydia. Syphilis.”
He proceeded to describe images we’d seen a few years earlier in a sexual education seminar required for my high school. That’s when he first decided women were disgusting.
Dixie inhaled deeply through her nose as our lips remained locked. I’d stopped breathing. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to suffocate. Part of me wanted to suffocate. To die pressed to her lips would be the best death of all. If not for the demon.
“Pustules and swollen lymph nodes, yes” Eat’em rattled off.
Dixie’s thumb found the cavity on my shoulder.
I could hear the sirens start up again. My mind started drifting. Screams. Gunshots. I’m sixteen again.
I should have been lost in the kiss, but instead I was lost in my nightmarish memories.
Somewhere in the house a window shattered. I scrambled under my bed accompanied by my pipsqueak demon. My stepfather yelled. A gunshot. My mother screamed. Another gunshot. Another. Silence. Agonizing silence. An eternity passed. I crawled out of my room and slowly moved toward the stairs. My mother sprawled out on the living room floor. She breathed slowly. Her face frozen in fear. I smelled the blood before I saw it – metallic and sour – a hint of something that smelled like fire.
The twelve steps descending into the living room were higher than they’d ever been. I braced myself with against the wall as I approached my mother, listening to the shrill sound that escaped chest with each rise and fall. I knelt beside the fireplace and tried to touch her hand. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t. A man came out of my parents’ room.
He had sunken cheeks, pale eyes, and disheveled black hair. His face was placid and emotionless. He had a gun.
I grabbed the fireplace poker and gripped it with two hands. He laughed. He could have shot me. Could have taken my life. Instead, he reached for the poker. And I let him grab it from my shaking hands. I remember the icy
“This time,” I said, “yes, I’m pretty certain he’s dead.”
“I don’t know,” she kissed my cheek. “You might have to kill him again.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking, if she believed me or thought this was a joke. Either way, I didn’t care, just talking about it seemed to lift a pressure from my shoulders, even if she didn’t believe me.
“No,” I shook my head centimeters from her lips. “No. Nonono. No. I’m not a murderer.”
“No,” she said, “you’re not. But you did kill someone in order to save a pretty girl.”
“I never said she was pretty.”
“Was she pretty?”
“She…” I pictured the blonde’s crystal blue eyes. “She was pretty, yes. I guess you could say she was pretty.”
“See,” Dixie said. “And fighting for a pretty girl doesn’t make you a killer. It makes you a hero.”
Her breath caressed my lips. I wanted to tell her she was pretty, but I froze, transfixed by her.
“I like you, Jacob,” her mouth felt buttery; soft with Chap Stick. She kissed me. Our teeth clicked together and her tongue, smooth and rough all at once flicked the tip of my own.
Her fingers ran through my hair. Flakes of dead skin glided away from my scalp. The air filled with them. Swarms of discarded pieces of myself swam along the fan’s current, pulling back as the air stilled.
“Ugh…” Eat’em bellowed, “I bet she tastes like raw meat.”
She traced my ear with her fingertips. Through her purple locks I could read every Post-It as if at once. My peripheral vision widened. The world became too clear to cope with.
Her hand dropped to my jawbone, ran down my neck and found my collarbone.
“Barf!” the demon bemoaned. He leaned onto my arm, propped on the biology book. I tensed under the prickle of hundreds of tiny quills. They were more hedgehog-like than porcupine, the tips couldn’t puncture flesh, but they were imposing enough to ward off curious animals. “You’re going to get a disease. Herpes. Gonorrhea. AIDS. Chlamydia. Syphilis.”
He proceeded to describe images we’d seen a few years earlier in a sexual education seminar required for my high school. That’s when he first decided women were disgusting.
Dixie inhaled deeply through her nose as our lips remained locked. I’d stopped breathing. I couldn’t breathe. I was going to suffocate. Part of me wanted to suffocate. To die pressed to her lips would be the best death of all. If not for the demon.
“Pustules and swollen lymph nodes, yes” Eat’em rattled off.
Dixie’s thumb found the cavity on my shoulder.
I could hear the sirens start up again. My mind started drifting. Screams. Gunshots. I’m sixteen again.
I should have been lost in the kiss, but instead I was lost in my nightmarish memories.
Somewhere in the house a window shattered. I scrambled under my bed accompanied by my pipsqueak demon. My stepfather yelled. A gunshot. My mother screamed. Another gunshot. Another. Silence. Agonizing silence. An eternity passed. I crawled out of my room and slowly moved toward the stairs. My mother sprawled out on the living room floor. She breathed slowly. Her face frozen in fear. I smelled the blood before I saw it – metallic and sour – a hint of something that smelled like fire.
The twelve steps descending into the living room were higher than they’d ever been. I braced myself with against the wall as I approached my mother, listening to the shrill sound that escaped chest with each rise and fall. I knelt beside the fireplace and tried to touch her hand. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t. A man came out of my parents’ room.
He had sunken cheeks, pale eyes, and disheveled black hair. His face was placid and emotionless. He had a gun.
I grabbed the fireplace poker and gripped it with two hands. He laughed. He could have shot me. Could have taken my life. Instead, he reached for the poker. And I let him grab it from my shaking hands. I remember the icy
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