So I’m lying on the chiffon rug in the presidential suite of the Maynard Hotel, staring up at the shimmering chandelier dancing light across the vast universe of space surrounding me, while Megan is straddling me with her bare sun-drenched legs, holding a gun in my mouth.
Her emerald eyes flash dementedly. I once read that when murderers are about to pull the trigger, their pupils dilate with fear, a last flash of humanity showing that although they’re about to blow your brains into the carpet, they do care about you. But Megan’s pupils were tiny, like two black snooker balls lost in the rolling white sand dunes of the desert. Either she isn’t planning on killing me or she really doesn’t give a shit.
I feel like I should be afraid now, but as I feel her hard thighs clamp around my waist and look up at her figure-hugging, white lace dress, revealing her rock-solid cleavage, I can’t help but feel aroused. Animals in the wild can’t imagine their own death, but they can imagine their next screw. I feel like I’m a fully-fledged member of the Animal Kingdom now.
The gun in my mouth feels tinny, like sucking on a wrench. Or a metal cock.
Megan tells me that she’s gonna make me pay for her husband’s death because every bad decision he ever made was down to me. I talked him into buying stock in Exon before the shares crashed into the abyss, I bought him the white marching powder that brought on the midnight paranoia shakes. I gave him the pink oval Percocet for his nightmares that meant he was never really awake or asleep, more existing in a dreamland of indecipherable shapes and sounds.
The last time I spoke to him on the phone, I asked how he was feeling. “Like I’m gonna miss my next stop,” he said, shortly before jumping into the path of an oncoming train. In that moment, his heart stopped, as did mine. All I could hear on the other end of the line was a whooshing sound like his phone had gone from standstill to a hundred miles an hour. Then stopped.
I put my hand on Megan’s and could feel her fingers tense around the trigger. She was gently squeezing. Will she? Won’t she? Life, death, life death. Every tiny flex could send me into the next world.
I slowly pushed her hand towards her breasts so that the gun exited my mouth. “I made you, Megan. You and Jack. Without me, you’d both still be living out of shoeboxes in the East End. That was real death, Megan. I gave Jack life.”
“If that’s your last confession, then you’ve blown it,” she said, still holding the gun in mid-air right between my eyes.
“Kill me, don’t kill me, it doesn’t really matter. It won’t bring Jack back. You’ll still be all alone. Sad little Megan. The little train that couldn’t,” I said, feeling her bum wiggle against my torso as she tried to retain her balance.
“When you first met Jack, he was a nobody. Sad little job, sad little life. I turned him into me and then you couldn’t get enough of him. We both know why you’re here.”
With that, I grabbed both of her knees and slid my hands firmly up her legs, feeling myself going inside her dress. She gave me a pained look, then took her left hand off the gun and squeezed my right bicep.
Even though she weighed a good 50 kilos, all tits and arse, I was able to arch my back forward and lift her off the ground, holding her above me as I stood upright.
She uncocked the gun and dropped it to her side. We kissed hard and for a moment we were two lovers, somewhere between sex and romance, between somewhere and nowhere. I threw her body down onto the bed.
“What are you going to do to me?” She said dazed, legs spread apart on the sheets.
“I’m going to make you feel alive,” I said, and then picked up the cold metal gun from the carpet.
As I held the gun high up over her, waiting to rain down bullets, she gasped and started scrambling to get away. But she didn’t. They never do.
I punctured three bullets into her. One in each breast and one in the head. Tiny beads of blood poured from each orifice, crimsoning the white sheets with tiny trickles of Megan. The hole in her forehead was a faucet of blood, dripping down the peak of her nose and wetting her lips red.
I leaned over her and kissed her open mouth, tasting tiny flecks of blood.
I don’t even know who I am sometimes.