Can’t hear my heartbeat anymore.

She’s hands rubbing on his naked chest send shivers reeling down my stiffened spine.  The hardness of my body, a tense, and uncomfortable thing.  Like a wild animal caught in the depths of a vicious attack, visceral and prepared. Callous. I used to notice the loud rhythmic beating of my heart in these moments, the moments just before the anarchy. Seconds ticking loudly like a time bomb. A time bomb of my shitty existence.



And now, after all we’ve been through, I don’t hear my heart beat anymore. That kind of panic had wilted away the day we escaped from Babyface’s apartment.  Tearing through the window like two hostage victims, running down the street with dried tears plastered to our cheeks from the bitter wind that night.

This time, I just took a generous shot from the glass of whisky perched next to me on the computer desk, and braced myself. Let the liquor glide down my throat, burning away, any last regrets.


What are regrets to me now?  Nothing but a word, I can’t even define anymore.

She’s whispering something in his ear, the curls of her ponytail spilling down his shoulder. Rubbing his back, neck, with those slim hands.  The one with the scar.

This is going to last about, three more seconds.

I can’t remember exactly how I ended up with him pinned against the wall, or when, I ripped the telephone wire out of the drywall, but it all happened.  I do remember her looking over to me, still giving him the neck rub, and me throwing her the nod. Her, reaching back with one hand, and carefully pulling the axe out from the ass of her jeans.  When she pulled the axe around very quietly, placing the blade on the soft flesh of his jugular. That he didn’t freeze up like the last man did, but was jarred by it and fought back. This is the part I can’t remember because I got up from that cheap lawn chair, and in between this moment, and the ones following it, we ended up against the bedroom wall. She, with the axe against his throat, and me tearing the phone wire out of the wall, yelling something that sounds like,

“You fucking move and she’ll cut your throat open.”

Stepping forward and making a fist around his junk, he stopped resisting, and he became very still. Like any man would. All you could hear was the group of us breathing, heavy and heated. Three people smashed together in a tyranny of bullshit and greed.


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