I'm not Homicidal

Friday, January 18th, 2008 2:37PM

I jolt awake as his fuckin’ alarm clock blares sappy oldies music into my brain, jamming it in every damn nook and cranny. Every fucking morning! Can’t he just FOR ONCE switch it OFF instead of hitting the goddamned SNOOZE!? I wrestle my way out of the thick feather comforter that I used as my safety cocoon and reach over to slam my bony fist down, not remembering that this was one of those idiotic old-school clocks with a fuckin’ spike on top, purely to gore my hand and drip crimson everywhere. This was never going to come out of the sheets. God fucking damnit, why the HELL can’t anything ever just WORK for me? That’s when I realize, I can’t feel any pain. I rotate my wrist with my other hand and examine the damage. It’s in there pretty good, I decide to wait until I get to the bathroom to pull it out, fearing my blood will stain the alpaca fur rug he bought with last season’s rocket in sales. It was an increase nobody in our business had seen in a while, so he spent it on fuckin’ goatskin just to have us walk all over it and worry about spilling body fluids on it. I slip myself out of the bed and tiptoe over the rug into the bathroom.



Friday, January 18th, 2008 3:14PM

I pat the towel down my leg, getting the last drops of water lingering from the shower, and shake my hair out. I drop my plush cotton rectangle onto the white marble floor as I step towards the closet, grabbing a few loose pieces of clothing to throw on. I go commando under my boyfriend’s Polo brand t-shirt and jersey athletic shorts that hang down to my knees because I have decided to finally do laundry today. Where the fuck did I put that little baggie from last night? My eyes scatter across the room as my heart beats frantically in a freak rush of adrenaline out of fear that I had misplaced the little pouch filled with white powder. My morning coffee. My eggs and toast. My newspaper. If I lost that, my whole week was going to fuckin’ hell. FUCK, what was I thinking leaving it out last night? I am getting so Goddamn sloppy. I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned anything about the drugs I left on his nightstand almost weekly. Normally he would have said something by now; he was always watching out for the amount of chemicals I put in my body. I reached under the bed with my fingers grasping, hoping for contact with cool plastic. You fuckin’ little piece of shit, get the FUCK back over here… I ripped it open over the mirror on my vanity, lined it up in 3 rows with the old credit card, pressed my cheek to its icy reflection, held my nostril up to the end of a line and inhaled all of the powder in one sharp breathe. I sit back against the bed and wipe my thumb across the bottom of my nose, licking the rest of the crystals from my fingertip. I can feel my saliva stretch from my tongue as I roll it back inside my mouth only to have it be welcomed with a fresh stream of fuckin’ blood leaking from inside my nose.



Friday, January 18th, 2008 5:42PM

I was just about to grab the clothes from the dryer and fold them, but he called from his office on the 100th floor of the Sears Tower, where he worked so diligently at bossing everyone on the floors below him around. He did nothing except sit at his fucking little silver computer playing solitaire or watch the city around him with binoculars from his big fuckin’ deal of an office way high up in the goddamn sky. I can’t imagine what the HELL there is to see up there. I mean, JESUS CHRIST it’s all shitty smog! I pick up the phone.
“Hey sweetie, you almost done with work?”
“Yeah, I gotta just run to the cleaners to pick up my suit, wanted to tell you to dress up tonight. I got a bonus at work today and I wanted to take ya somewhere special. Hope you don’t have a date,” he ended his self-advertisement with a coy smile I could hear over the phone.
I giggle politely, “what should I wear?”
“Anything that shows that gorgeous neck of yours. I’ll be home in half an hour if I’m lucky. Love ya.” click
Motherfucker. Now I have to go finish those lines and make sure I pack those two little green pills with the mud flap girl engraved in them.



Friday, January 18th, 2008 7:17PM

He cracks a joke about how much I ate for not being very hungry and I nod a shy smile while finishing off my water. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, leaving him with one of my internal monologues that he will never hear: Why the FUCK does he do this SHIT to me? I hate when I have to dress up and go out, it’s only a GODDAMNED MEAL!! Who am I dressing up as a cunt of a Christmas present for? My asswipe boyfriend has no idea what I am going through right now, who does he think he is tellin’ ME what withdrawal fucking feels like? I snatch a paper cup from the dispenser by the drinking fountains and wash one of the mean greens down my throat, willing it to mix with the wine I had with dinner. I wanted to be able to feel tonight. No more of this bitchy, numb, robot living, I needed to feel. I think the only thing that makes me regret ever experimenting with the obnoxious combination of speed and LSD is the look on my boyfriend’s face when I return from the bathroom with moistened lips and a bounce in my step. The worst thing about it was that he knew. He had done the same thing 2 years ago when we had first started dating. It was good for me, he said. God, what a fuckin’ know-it-all little COCKSUCKER.



Friday, January 18th, 2008 9:55PM

We went home for a few hours to get ready to go to the bars and change our costumes for a different party, my kind of party. We arrived at the club just as the doors were opening at 9:30, but decide to drink first. I had taken the other “e” at home, where I seduced him into swallowing one as well; why the fuck shouldn’t he? It’s for old time’s sake, just put it in your GODDAMNED mouth, it’s not going to fuckin’ kill you. Once at the club, he leads me straight to the back and up a carved stairway to a second floor club with fewer people, but richer people. Damn VIPs only, I guess. I can feel my adrenaline kick into gear, taste my saliva turn sour, and my heart start pumping with strain. Well It’s about FUCKIN’ TIME!! I bare my perfect teeth at a group of sparkly couples who are just happy as fuckin’ clams, enjoying their $80 glass of fuckin’ bubbly. I take a sip of the appletini as he sets it in front of me. After 15 minutes of soaking in that most Goddamned glorious moment when the drugs and alcohol began to mix in my already fucked up body, he pulls me off of the velvet-satin booth and into the middle of the floor, where I notice the air is made of every shitty brand of eau de parfume that costs more than $150 per ounce.
“I’ve got something for you,” he whispers deeply into my ear.
Next thing I know, I’m being blinded by all the fuckin’ rocks hanging around my neck.
“I hope you like it. Ordered it custom; had it designed just for you.”
I start crying.



Friday, January 18th, 2008 11:00PM

What the fuck? Where the hell am I? Even my inner monologue has gone soft and fuzzy; I sound like that teacher who’s annoying as hell on the Peanuts cartoon. I lift my head from his shoulder and look around with eyes as wide as saucers. There’s nowhere I can look for longer than 2 seconds before my eye muscles start goin’ fucking spasmodic, making my eyes twitch from left to right faster than I could clap my hands. I had to keep blinking to stop their monotonous zigzag path. I realize I am clenching my jaw as our eyes make contact and I know he musta popped 2 of those goddamn pills cause neither of us can see straight and its impossible to make out. Let’s just get the fuck out of here and go home, I want to fuckin’ chill for a bit without all these banks and their cocksucking sluts. He must have read my mind because we ended up back at his place in less than 40 minutes.



Saturday, January 19th, 2008 3:46AM

My throbbing neck forces me awake. What the hell…? Where the hell did this come from? I weakly lift the glittering diamond chain from my chest and look down to examine it. Jesus fucking Christ. How much did this cost!? There’s no way that shitty drug is bringing in enough fuckin’ cash for this! And what the fuck…why? It’s not some special occasion…SHIT. I feel for my ring finger. GODDAMNIT! I could not, for the fucking life of me, remember when he might have asked me to marry him. I feel his hand on my back and turn my face towards him, catching the look in his eye, and I realize he’s won. All the years I spent testing his love for me by fucking him over, being a bitch, lying, abusing, corrupting him in every way imaginable, and it had to end like this. Damn, did I get sloppy. I shake my head and grin reluctantly while tears roll down my cheeks. This is the happiest day of my life and one of the saddest. I get to spend the rest of my life with the man I love more than anything, but I never even got to hear him ask the question I had been waiting for. At least I agreed.



Saturday, January 19th, 2008 4:21AM

He passes me a pipe and says it’ll help me calm down. He only wants the best for me, obviously. I hold it to my mouth while he lights it and I suck in, letting this drug take its turn. My day was a constant fucking cycle of drugs. I had drugs to wake me up, drugs to put me to sleep, drugs to feed me, drugs to alter my mood; I even had drugs to help me come down from the other drugs. He begins stroking my hair.
“What the fuck am I gonna do with you, babe?”
You already asked me to marry you, what the fuck else can you do? You piece of shit genius of mine. I bite my bottom lip and look up at him.
“I got me the prettiest little fucked up bitch in America, and it’s all my fault. Guess that means I gotta fix you, huh?” He takes a last drag from the glass bowl and sets it on the nightstand before running his fingers up my bare arm.
“How do you plan on doing that?” I relax as he massages my shoulder, pushing me down onto the bed again.
“We just gotta get you off slowly. One at a time. Can’t have you being my only customer,” he chimes. “Go back to sleep, I’ll worry about saving the baby.”
Fuck.

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Tags:

chicago, drugs, crack, money, ecstasy, club, cocaine, rich and homicide