Goodreads
del.icio.us
It's important to think negative, I tell myself. I'm not looking at the bluish, bruised body of a whore on the floor. The moonlight illuminates the scene so hauntingly I'll never forget it. Yet that can't be what that is, nor is that a still-warm revolver on the dresser, nor is that bright red liquid on my hands blood.
Those aren't empty liquor bottles strewn the place over. This is not a hotel room and that corpse of a prostitute surrounded by drying blood stains does not actually exist. Those aren't gory hand prints made everywhere in a tearful attempt at resuscitation.
Whoever she was, really was, she had a unique air of beauty. She strut like a pro and her clothes, while outdated, rode her body just so. Just so a man with a little money couldn't turn her down. I don't think she was the first Reno girl I've ever had, but I'm pretty sure she is the last.
For the sake of sanity in a time like this, it is important to stay negative. In this gray area between reality and what seems to be a cheap horror film, it's best to stay the safe course.
To not wonder. To not ask questions. I tell myself I should leave those things to the world. That it's best to conclude none of this is real. None of this could be real.
This is not a far fetch, really, considering the numbness in my body, the constrictive quality of the atmosphere. How everything feels heavy. How I'm sweating even though the window's open and the darkness flows in, blowing the curtains softly like flags in the wind.
"I am not a murderer," I say.
I'm fighting thoughts of my wife, my family. "Beautiful Jane," I call out, "what have I done?" What has happened to me?
And then the bastard question, the worst one of all: Why?
The one on the floor is not the victim, I'll tell her. The cops, too. Far less than that, she was the criminal. From the street. An extortioner, she demanded what I couldn't give.
I'd like to think it my own fault she decided I was wealthier than I am. But that would lead to certain ludicrous notions, like murder, which of course is not what happened here. How could it be? I'm no murderer, I already said that.
I'm paralyzed all the same. I feel disconnected from my body. How long have I been standing here with my hand, one of two which simply wouldn't come clean, sweatily gripping the door handle?
Jane, I've done no such thing, I say sternly to the mental image of my wife. I've been framed – can you imagine me with a prostitute? Now's the time to admit the issue of the bookie. Jane, I'm in debt. I remortgaged the house trying to pay, you see? I have enemies, they did this. I was drunk, I never saw the girl until morning. If this is reality, then why are these things not true?
I close my eyes in an effort to erase all the opposing evidence. One hell of a setup the bookie had there. Luckily it'll be gone when I open my eyes again.
I open them to the cool darkness of the room, and as my eyes adjust, my heart leaps – it worked! The room is empty. I blink and this "reality" reigns again.
I am not a murderer. I'm here on business. I live in a suburb.
Then how can this be? Simple; it's not.
I am in someone else's nightmare, I realize. The paralysis subsides. Someone will surely be punished for this--a woman is a woman, regardless of her profession.
I wag my finger in the air at this idiot. Perhaps I'm occupying his body as well. No matter, a solution has come to mind.
First I'll use his voice to call his wife, I decide, moving to the bed, next to which there's a night stand supporting part of a bottle of vodka and a telephone.
First I use his hands to finish the bottle. I dial his phone number, searching his memory for it--it's eerily close to my own. It's a bad time for coincidences.
"Hello?" says a woman's voice after many rings.
"Honey," he says with me guessing her name. "Jane." It's a common name.
"George, it's pretty late. Everything alright?"
"Yes, sweetheart... Reno's great," he tells her.
"Glad to hear it," she says. "What couldn't wait for morning, George?" she demands of him. He shares my name.
"Nothing, honey. Just needed to hear your voice, and I wanted to say I love you. Tell the children the same," he says slowly.
"Is that all? Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine, Jane. Just had a few too many white Russians," he lies. "Good night."
"I love you too, George," she says. I think I hear her starting to cry. She seems rather emotional. I get the feeling this is why he loved her. She demanded a great deal of protection.
"I know," I say in his voice, hanging up.
I force his defiant legs to carry us to the dresser. Six chambers, two spent casings. Which leaves four to get it right, in case this guilty man comes back to try anything stupid.
As I put the barrel to his forehead, slippery with sweat, I doubt he will.
This man stank of pure evil, I think.
P. H. Madore's been published here and there. Really, he just wants an easy life. That's why he still writes, and he knows that's quite a joke.