Chapter Thirteen
Sissy
This can’t be happening. All of this is a horrible nightmare that I will wake up from. I’ll have fallen asleep while drinking my tea earlier and my beautiful little teacup will be perfect on my coffee table and there won’t be two naked people in my bed, one of them literally dead staring me with glassy eyes.
I wanted to kill Mark. Oh, I wanted to kill him. Then I didn’t want to kill him. Then I wanted to kill him again. Then, when he wrapped his hand around my throat, I didn’t. Something about that scared the shit out of me. It flipped a switch in my brain or made me sober up. Something. Because I wasn’t sure I could do to him what I just felt him do to me. It was terrifying.
And Lydia … I’m not sure where she disappeared to. Wherever it was, she clutched that belt like a lifeline, towing herself ashore to keep from drowning. Not entirely sure she needed to steal Mark’s life to keep hold of hers. But what the hell do I know. Maybe she’s reliving something similar to what I relive every damn day. If that’s the case, as long as we have each other to lean on, I’ll help her. I’ll grab the end of that belt, too, and we’ll play tug o’ war with it until his head pops clean off his shoulders. What’s up with that saying anyway? If someone’s head pops clean off their shoulders, that’s not going to be clean. It’s going to be a fucking mess! So does it mean a clean break, a clean cut? Because this would be like a boil bursting and oozing shit everywhere. Mark’s brains would be like an enormous STD.
I stare down at Mark’s dying eyes as I imagine his head exploding, like a boil being popped and spraying everything around us. A sort of giddiness overcomes me. An olfactory memory triggers a rotting, pus-filled scent. I watch Dr. Pimple Popper religiously. I crave the release. The thought of poking something with a needle and watching it ooze before it pops ….
“Lydia?” I ask as I lean my head to the side and watch as Mark slowly dies.
“Yeah?” she responds, still somewhere off in her own little world.
“I don’t think he’s breathing anymore.”
Lydia’s head snaps down and panic sets into her features. She instantly lets go of the belt and stares at him intently, as if he’s going to take a big gulp of air and everything is going to be just fine.
But that doesn’t happen.
And Lydia is far from being fine.
She undoes the belt and slaps at his cheeks. Nothing happens. His eyes remain eerily still and hard like candy.
“Mark, come on. This isn’t funny, fucker!” Lydia’s voice shakes as it rises into hysterics.
“I don’t think he’s joking around,” I state. “I think he’s dead.”
“No, no, no, no ….” She continues with her no’s as she shoves me out of the way and straddles his waist. Her hands push on his chest a few times before she reaches up and smacks his face.
When she reaches over to smack his cheek again, I grab her hand and put it back on his chest. I stare at his face growing more ashen with every second that ticks by. It’s strange to be in the presence of a dead person anyway. But add to the fact that you are one of the reasons they are dead and it’s surreal. If I wasn’t already partially clinical—according to people who I think are clinical—this would be enough to drive me there. The image of an old-time station wagon ambulance pops into my head, lights flashing. That would actually be kind of fun to ride in. I could be a Ghostbuster. I’d probably end up being Louis Tully wearing the straightjacket at the end.
“Hey!” Lydia shouts in my ear, and I jump.
Frantically, I lean down and touch my mouth to his, opening it wider with my fingers. One deep breath after another fills his lungs and causes his chest to rise. Just as I start to get a little light headed, I hear a tiny rattle. I stop and drop my ear down to his mouth as I watch his chest for any movement. Then I see it and hear a wheezing cough.
I jerk back and gaze into the eyes of a dead man. They aren’t so dead anymore. Tears fill his eyes as they try to moisten themselves and he tries to catch his breath.
Lydia’s head drops back as she says a silent prayer to my ceiling, her body slouching as the anxiety leaves her. I’m not really sure what to say to her at the moment. I think we’re both fucking confused with the entire situation, and to be honest, I think she’s a little fucking crazy herself. I’ve never met anyone like her before.
A gasp catches my attention and I look down at Mark. He’s trying to say something, but he can’t quite get it out yet. He must need a drink.
“Go get him some water, will ya?” I ask Lydia.
She glances down at Mark with angry, regretful eyes before sliding off him and going to the kitchen.
“It’ll be okay. Just try to relax,” I say to him.
He stares at me with terror-filled eyes. I don’t blame him. This is the second time today that he’s been fucked up because of me. I’d want to run the hell out of here as well. Not that he didn’t just commit consensual rape as payment for his silence and plumbing skills.
Mark’s mouth moves again and a croak escapes his lips. I lay my finger over his lips and shush him, but he blows at my finger trying to push it away.
“What?” I ask him, then bend over and place my ear next to his mouth.
His voice cracks and croaks, but I can clearly make out what he says. “Get the fuck away from me, you crazy cunt.”
My body stiffens as his words reverberate through me. I may be a lot of things—anxious, depressed, agoraphobic, anthropomorphism, demisexual, a touch neurotic, and maybe even a cunt at times, because who isn’t—but crazy is not one of them.
