Hedonist: Part Two

I smell the fresh polish on the leather interior. My eyes dim from an eight hour work day and constant thoughts of Brandi. I think of the extra stash in my bed stand that Brandi knows about. The butcher knife that is lying in a kitchen drawer. The alligator skin suitcases lining the lower wall of my closet. I think of these things and what she’ll choose. I look at the clock in the council. 6:13. Brandi didn’t work today.

      The steering wheel is sticky from the long time contact with lotion slathered hands. The Bose radio/CD player/MP3 player is turned off. I sit in the quiet of the car and the road and I think. What will I see when I get home? My day at work was slow. Starting with my morning desk work, I was thinking about Brandi. My morning executive meeting, Brandi was there. My sixth cup of coffee, Brandi. My afternoon desk work, Brandi. My client calls, Brandi. My management work, Brandi. My afternoon trip to the company gym complete with spa and indoor pool, Brandi was with me. And now. The car ride. She’s here.

      The Mercedes gently glides into the driveway. I get out and walk to my door. I stop. There are no waves of blue, green, and purple. No waves of pressure. No euphoria. No white light. Only broken images of a lifeless body with open wrists in a warm red Jacuzzi bath. A perfect blonde statue laying still on my carpet, a long strand of silver from the crook of her arm. A sobbing woman, makeup running down her cheeks, being cradled, cold, shaking, crying and an older woman saying “Don’t worry, honey. You’re safe here. We’ll get you clean.”

      I put my keys in the door.

      Blood pours from the wrists of the woman in the bath.

      I step inside my house.

      Spit and snot and blood come out of the mouth and nose of the blonde statue, eyes rolled back into its head.

      I walk down the hallway.

      The sobbing woman, in the arms of the old woman, gritting her teeth, saying “I hate him. I don’t want to see him again.”

      My stomach sinks.

      My paintings in the hallway all look at me. Pierce me. Their eyes accusing. I turn into the living room. I see Brandi on the couch. Not crying. No blood. No snot and spit. No old woman. She smiles while she thumbs under her nose. A snowy mirror and razor in her lap.

      “Hi.” She says.

      I stare. Frozen. She gets up and walks towards me. She grabs the back of my head and encloses her lips on mine. I can taste her tongue. The coffee. My coke. She places her hand on my neck. I feel the slight shock of cold metal. She brings her arm down and opens her palm. She holds out my syringe, my tin can, and my butane lighter.

      “Here. I’ve been waiting for you.” She says.

      Three Magnum Trojans lie on the coffee table. I take my lighter and press down. An orange flame erupts. I stare at it for what seems like an hour. I look deep into Brandi’s eyes. Clear and blue and cold. I take my belt off. I wrap my belt around my arm. A vein bubbles up by the time the can is heated. The contents are emptied into a vial. A vial into the syringe. Needle in my arm. And the plunger comes down. By the time it bottoms out waves of color begin to surround my eyes.