I smash his mouth against the edge of the tub and I don't want or need
to look at the results. All I know is he stops moving and I let his
greasy hair slide out from my fist. The tub rings as his head connects
with it again on the way to the floor. I should have thought about
moving the mat away beforehand, but I didn't, I never do, and the puddle
forms around his head and runs to the mat like it's home. I watch the
pink turn red, almost brown, and wipe my hands on my pants. That son of
a bitch must have never washed his hair once in his damn life.
I
watch him for a minute, not really looking at him so much as breathing
and just standing there, not thinking. I turn around and head into the
kitchen and then into the living room. There aren't a lot of pictures
around. I don't know why I thought there would be. It's a nice enough
place, but she obviously took care of that. No way Ern had much of any
hand in setting any of this up. Not that he couldn't, but I think I
know Ern enough, just enough to know he'd have nothing to do with the
process. It's just not something he'd spare the time for. And that's
fine. I would have done things a bit differently, a bit better, but
that's neither here nor there. It is what it is. It wasn't my choice.
And besides, I got nothing against him. Just wish he'd wash his hair once in a while is all.
There are pictures, I
didn't mean to give the impression there weren't, but it's not like I
thought it would be. I'm not in any of these pictures, it's just them.
Well, them and others, friends I guess. It's not really any of my
business. The point is it's not me in the pictures, not a single
goddamn one. Now I'm not going to go through closets and such, digging
around to find shoe boxes of photos from way back, making sure and taking
a peek, well I haven't yet anyway. I am going to, I just haven't yet.
I've been busy. But I'm not in any of these and I can't say as I like
that too much at all. I can't say as I expected any different, but I
was hoping. I had hope and coming here, well, I didn't mean for things
to go as they did, but then I never did and they always zigged when I
zagged and so here I am.
I find one picture I like, one that
twists it just right, and I take it off the shelf. It's her out on a
pier, out northwest it looks like, and it's pretty cold I guess, and
windy, and she's smiling that smile and her hat's pulled low and she's
got that red in her cheeks and it kills me a little bit, but I'm smiling
again, smiling and smiling and I'm keeping this one, regardless of
what's in the upstairs closet, whatever I end up doing with that mess in
the bathroom, this is mine, this moment is mine, and I'm taking it with
me and keeping it safe and secret next to my heart.
I hear
something back by the bathroom and make my way through the kitchen.
He's dragging himself out of the bathroom, leaking blood out of his
mouth and halfway wiping it up with his clothes as he drags himself
across the floor, leaving that blood trail, wide and ugly, right across
the threshold. I stand there watching him struggling, breathing hard
and raspy, wet breaths I'm sure hurt like hell, until he comes upon my
feet. He stops and looks up at me, shaking a little, which I attribute
to the shock. He's been sort of groaning, low and quiet, since I found
the picture, and he doesn't stop when he looks at me. He doesn't even
know who I am. That makes me mad, but not at him. I got nothing
against him. In fact, I agree with him, we got the same taste. I
imagine we'd be fast friends were the situation different. But it
isn't.
I crouch down next to him and look into his face. He's
trying to talk to me but he can't, between the blood and the broken
teeth. He's trying to though, just gurgling away, making little
half-words, flashing those teeth at me, jagged and shattered, his lips
torn to bits, just a mess to look at. I keep looking though, I don't
turn away. I put my knee on his throat and lean. Yeah, we would have
got along fine.
7 February 2008
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