“LOOK,” I said, cutting across yet another plea, “You’re dead. You need to accept that.”
“No. Stop pretending to be alive. It’s stupid. It’s creepy. Now GO. THE. HELL. AWAY.”
She crossed her arms and stared at me.
I rolled my eyes. Women! Can’t live with ‘em, can’t escape even by killing ‘em.
Yeah, I killed someone. Ironically, it was accidental. I say ironically, because Linda wasn’t the first by a long shot. But we were arguing because I saw her fucking the next door neighbours – gay guys, go figure! – on their back veranda. Both of them. High noon, bright daylight, but then the backyard is only visible from one place – ours. And we weren’t that interested in watching the naked, oil-slicked adventures that went on there. Well I weren’t. Wasn’t. Obviously Linda was a bit more interested than I’d thought. Guess they did make me look bloody boring. Kama Sutra and oil and moans of ecstasy. Linda and I managed missionary position and I came every time. That seemed good enough, going by the dirty talk and the screaming during orgasms. Well, fuck me. I was wrong.
Damn, I’ve lost track. Right. I killed Linda. But like I say, it was accidental. I know all murderers say that, except the freakazoids who eat people’s faces while they’re alive and tied up, then fry their fingers and make haggis – shit. Off topic again. It was accidental. Just believe me. We were arguing, she told me I fuck like a jellyfish (what the fuck?), and I slapped her. One of those girly i’m-so-pissed-off-you-arsehole slaps. But it knocked her off her stilettos -the only things she was wearing except for a coating of scented massage oil – some faggy flowery thing I wouldn’t be caught dead using – and a self-satisfied smirk. It was the smirk that did for me, but it was the high heels that did for Linda. She swayed sideways and lost her balance on those tiny, stupidly high heels and went down, smacking her head on the ‘occasional table’ with a nasty-sounding thump. And she died 12 or so hours later. In her sleep. We’d called a truce and gone to bed and fucked (yeah, missionary position) and slept. I woke up clutching a dead-cold cadaver that wouldn’t move so I could take a pulse.
Fuck. Reliving that has me crying like a little girl. I’m off to get a beer. See you later.
I wake up from too many beers, too bloody early. Some nasty girly crap is blasting from the speakers of my sound system. Oh fuck, it’s that stalker-y one:
The tide is high but I’m holding on
I’m gonna be your number one
Fuck. My head is pounding in time to the island beat, like someone’s ramming a red-hot poker through it each time. And I need to chuck. Fuck off for a bit while I surf the porcelain bus. And turn off that bloody music on your way out. If she’ll let you.