|
Order this writing in the collection book Layers of Creation available for only 1795 |
 |
| |
|
Order this writing in the collection book Dark Matter available for only 1495 |
 |
|
| |
This appears in a pre-2010 issue
|
|
|
|
| ||
Mainline
Geoffrey Ralston
Even if I had said something, I’m not sure it would have made any difference.
I found her lying on her side in the bathroom, curled up into a little ball. Her arms crossed her chest, palms grasping her belly, grasping that last shred of life before she finally choked on her own vomit. Her toes were caked with dried blood; she must have broken them kicking the toilet in frantic spasms of pain. The track marks along her legs stood out like some kind of pox, speckled signs of slow decay and jaded indifference.
Her eyes were closed. She must have died sometime after midnight.
When I found her, I just sort of stared at her there, sprawled across the pale tile of our hotel bathroom. She finally looked peaceful, and it was odd seeing her that way.
I could only imagine her in anguish.
She would wince very time I tied her off. Even after so many times, she still hated the sight of blood. Every flush would elicit little squeals of discomfort from her lips. In fact, she hated the very concept of blood. When the pressure built up in her veins, her face cringed into a sour grimace and her breath came in weak pants. I think she just despised the idea of blood, the idea of what it was and what it stood for. She hated the way it flowed, she hated the way her appendages felt when it stopped flowing. She hated the sight of it on her palms when her cough got bad and she hated how it arced through the air when I had tied her off too tightly.
And she hated that there was so much of it. She hated how important it was to everyone when she wasn’t worth shit to anyone.
Not even me.
She didn’t even like when I ran my hands over her skin. Every time I did she would withdraw, claiming that she could feel the blood pulsing in my fingertips.
Christ, the woman couldn’t even bear her own period. She would bawl for hours when it came and I would have to somehow calm her down without touching her or making her heart beat too fast.
I kept thinking to myself, standing there over her body, that she would have liked death. She looked so goddamn peaceful.
Within ten minutes of snapping out of my daze, I was on the freeway headed west. We had checked into the hotel under a false name, so they wouldn’t know who to look for when the cleaning lady found her in the morning. They wouldn’t even know who she was; she had no record, which is why I liked to bang up with her.
We’d find a room and bomb out for hours together, watching television and fucking to pass the time. Lately, I thought she had taken a bad dive because she was always clutching her stomach and puking the second she came out of it. I’d usually just let her ride it out, because after all, it was none of my problem.
I didn’t realize how wrong I was until I walked in on her like that.
So there I was, pushing 90 toward the State line with a crumpled, hastily scrawled suicide note in my hand that I had found near her dead body:
I’m pregnant and it’s yours. Fuck you, and see you in Hell. – Jude
And I thought to myself, recalling her last words, how appropriate it was. She’d like Hell, I thought. After all, with all that fire and brimstone, how much blood could there possibly be?
It was another 100 miles to St. Louis.
