Chapter Forty-Five
Justin
“Human”- Rag’n’Bone Man
Ican’t move. I want to scream, to tell the person holding me to stop, but I can’t. My arm raises, even though I tell it not to. The blade of the knife gleams and then—A police siren blares outside the window and I jolt up from the couch, straight to my feet. A cold sweat drenches my skin and my heart is racing. I stumble and catch myself on the coffee table. Cobain sits up in his bed, ears lifted. He howls and barks at the screaming racket, and I rush to the window, certain they’ve come for me. I watch the little red and blue flashing lights bounce off the buildings and sweat builds underneath the collar of my shirt. The squad car rounds a corner, wheels screeching. The lights fade along with the wailing siren, and I release the breath I’d been holding. Cobain ruffs one last time before lying back in his bed.
My mind won’t stop. Day and night, night and fucking day, all I can do is try and piece together what happened that night. I remember Marisa coming over and leaving and then... nothing except for blurry memories of me and a knife and a shit-ton of blood. I barely sleep because I dream about it when I do. I rest my forehead against the glass, staring down at the bustling street, wishing I was the person I thought I was. Sane. But, really, what author is truly sane? I mean, we have voices inside our heads, we just get paid to let them out onto paper.
I turn from the window and pace. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. It feels like my head is constantly swelling, growing bigger and bigger with each incoherent thought I shove inside of it. I’m just waiting for it to pop.Bang.Brains all over the fucking walls. If I had a gun, I’d probably have blown my brains out by now.
I grab my MacBook, sit on the edge of the couch, and I open a Word document.
To love is to be insane, truly, it is. And she made me crazy. Obsession. Possession. All I wanted was her. Only her. All I wanted was the perfect story. So, you’ll understand, dear reader, why I had to kill him. She was mine and the thread that bound the spine of our book was of blood and bone. A love bought and paid for with lives...I write until my fingers ache, until the day fades to night. Thoughts of blood and death whirling in my mind like a magnificent wind. I write until the lines between fiction and reality are so blurred, I can’t tell you were the truth lies. And it’s cleansing. It’s beautiful, but what kind of monster thinks shit like this is beauty? Hanging my head, I scratch my fingers through my hair. I don’t feel safe inside my own mind. Madness... I think this feeling is madness. Maybe I should be thankful because isn’t this the state in which most authors find their most lucrative muse, in a state of utter chaos, steps away from insanity? Lewis Carrol? Don’t tell me that motherfucker wasn’t toeing the line of clinically insane, fucking Mome Raths and Cheshire Cats.
I set the computer to the side of the couch and, without much thought, I walk to the kitchen, but I freeze the second my bare feet touch the kitchen tile. This room haunts me. I don’t want to see that image of the bumpy sheet. The handprints on the wall... I close my eyes on my way to the fridge to get a beer, only opening them when I feel the stainless-steel handle beneath my palm and yank the door open. The dim interior light blinks. I grab the last two beers and shut the door. I keep my eyes closed until I feel the hardwood underneath my feet, and then I pull my phone from my pocket to text Marisa that we need more beer. The sound of the Sherwood Forest Horn blares from my couch.Great, she left her phone.I fish it out from the cushion and it beeps again. The screen lights up and a little green text bubble appears.I’m at Central Park. Come see me. xX Ed.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, gripping her phone. And I scroll back.Your lips are addicting.She’s no better than Meredith. She’ll leave me. I swipe my hand through my hair. I take a sip of beer. And Ed texts again.By Bow Bridge.
Oh, you fuckface, you! I take her phone and I grab a jacket before storming out of the apartment, right past that kitchen and straight to the subway that drops off at 72ndStreet.
* * *
Iwaveat the man selling carriage rides as I hurry along the street and head down the stairs. I veer off the sidewalk. The dry grass crunches underneath my shoes. Couples are walking close together on the winding path that leads through the park, kissing, laughing. And I’m seething. First, Chris Talon and now this ballfuck named Ed. I’m not losing to a guy named Ed. Ed’s not going to sink balls deep into her. That’s my job. I’m not losing her, because I love her and she’s carrying my baby, and she fuckingknowsI murdered someone. I’m not losing her to some assfuck. I’m not. I’m better, I am!Fuck you, Ed!No, she’s fstuck with me. Love is love. Promises are promises from here on out, goddamn it, Marisa with one ‘s’. You belong to me ‘til death do us part.
The closer I get to Bow Bridge, the darker it grows and the sparser the crowds get. Ed has no idea who he’s decided to mess with tonight. Justin Wild: Author. Murderer. Lover.
I stop just before the path turns and pick up a stone. A large stone, smooth and round, like I bet Ed’s skull is. I hold it close to my side, my palms growing slick with sweat as I approach the base of the bridge. The crickets silence as I step through the lawn. I’ve already killed one person, what does it matter if I kill another one? My ticket is already stamped: One-way to Hell. No refunds. No exchanges. Honestly, I’m just doing what any other guy would do in my situation if he weren’t worried about the repercussions. We’re all animals on the inside. All snarling teeth and rabid foam. I’ve just had my leash cut, that’s all. Madness, I’ve embraced the madness swirling within us all. I’m Lewis-motherfucking-Carrol and Marisa is my Alice and this Ed is the fucking White Rabbit that’s trying to lure her down a deep, dark hole.
I can hear the water lapping at the concrete foundation of the beautiful bridge. And there, by the water’s edge, stands a lone shadow in the dark. The red-orange glow of a cigarette grows bright as he inhales. A slow stream of gray smoke swirls around his head. Rage burns its way through me. Anger. Fear. Jealousy. I feel like a primitive caveman on the hunt, ready to kill and drag my prized hide back to my cave. Maybe I’ll mount Ed’s head over my fireplace to serve as a reminder to Marisa that she belongs to me. After all, I’ve lost everything. My publishing deal, my followers, my ability to write a decent fucking sentence—hell, I’ve even lost my sanity, so it seems. But above all else I love her, goddamn it, and she loves me. He moves. A light blue haze glows from the phone now in his hand. He takes another drag of his cigarette and Marisa’s phone buzzes. I don’t even pull her phone from my pocket.
“Ed?” I say, when I get right behind him.
He turns. I barely see a shadow of his face before I whack the side of his head with the stone. There’s a nasty little crack and he falls to the ground like a lead weight.Thud.Just for good measure, I take the rock and pound it over his skull again, and this time—splitter-splat—a little blood splatters across my shirt.Great.Sighing, I toss the rock into the lake with a splash, then fish his wallet from his pants pocket, because, muggings happen all the time in Central Park. And then, I walk off, humming “Happy Together” on my way to get some more beer because that’s how we’re going to be. Happy together, fucking Marisa.
You may can play a player, my dear, but I dare you to kill a killer.
I get home and toss that fucker’s wallet on my counter and set the case of beer down, taking one out and popping the top. Two people. I’ve killed two people now, and I wonder, where will it stop? I finish my beer and then another and another, the cans lined up perfectly beside the couch. My vision blurs from the alcohol. I take my phone from my pocket and text Marisa. The Sherwood Forest horn blares from my back pocket and I roll my eyes.That’s right. Ed...I lie back, scrunching a throw pillow underneath my head, and I close my eyes to more dreams of blood and knives and screaming and... and the sweet lull of Marisa’s voice whispering in my ear: “All I want is the perfect story.”
My eyes shoot open. “Marisa... ” Chill bumps scatter across my skin. My hair stands on end and a sick heat creeps over my body. I force my breath in, out, and squeeze my eyes shut, the image of it all coming together and playing out in my mind like some morbid silent movie reel. Only, I’m not Charlie Chaplin and Amy wasn’t Clara Bow. This isn’t fiction where the bad guy gets away.Or is it?
In a panic, I sit up, knocking over the beer cans as I rush to my door and lock it. I lean against the wall, my brain reeling. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial 9-1... but stop. What the hell am I going to do?
Yes officer, my girlfriend, oh wait, my pregnant girlfriend somehow murdered this girl I used to hook up with, in my apartment, while I was—well, I don’t remember what I was doing, but, I digress, she murdered this girl—
How did she get there?
Well, I don’t know.
You texted her.
Well, but...
And where is the body?
Um, well, we kinda hacked it up, flushed it down the toilet bit by bit.
So, you helped?
