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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Death · #1522889
A Sin-city type story told in pieces.
          ‘ “You know who I am,” I muttered, anger wringing from my tongue. My fingers clenched cold metal, as warm blood dripped to the floor. He cringed as I lifted the pistol to his face, scampering away on the rugged floor.  I could feel anger coursing through my veins, controlling my fingers, twitching them. Then I…
         Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
         Rewind to the alleyway.
         There I stood, leaning against the cold brick building, watching the harsh barrage of the rain.  Like spandex, my leather trench coat plastered to my body.  I slipped a cigarette from my pocket and brought it to my lips.  I reached for the book of matches in my pocket, but hesitated. The damn thing was like a fucking wet noodle anyways, perfect.  Still, I plucked it between my lips, trying to suck the nicotine out of it; anything to calm my nerves.  I looked at my hand as I drew it away from my lips; blood.  I held it there, under the faint light from the window of the Italian restaurant down the alley, watching the volley of raindrops slowly fade the crimson stain.
         Then he entered the alleyway, stumbling through a backdoor, accompanied with techno music and a concoction of perfume and alcohol. Just what I was waiting for. I trudged through puddles of water and waste, stepping into the shadows that the tall buildings cast. Staggering into the dumpster behind the nightclub head first, he slumped into a puddle.  What a lush.  My footsteps echoed loudly against the cold brick walls.  Looking into the darkness he shouted,
         “Who’s there? Is someone…somebody there?” slamming his head back into the dumpster.  I could feel a smile cross my face for the first time that day.  I stepped out of the shadows right in front of him, still sucking on that cigarette, still plastered in that drenched coat, but with clean hands for the first time that day.
         “Wha-what are you d-doing here?” he managed to stammer. He remembered me. The son of a bitch actually remembered me, even as trashed as he was.
         “Why don’t you just shut up and tell me what you know I need to know,” I replied, crouching down to eye level with the drunken heap.  His eyes and face contorted into a confused look.  I grabbed him by the collar and jerked him closer.
         “Who was it?” I growled through bared teeth.  He was so close now I could see the fear in his eyes.
         “I…I…I can’t tell you,” he stuttered; trying to cringe away, like he had anywhere to run to.
         “Alright then,” I said, grabbing the hilt of my knife out of my coat. “If that’s how you want it to be,” I added, shrugging my shoulder and lowering the eight-inch blade to his trembling wrist.
         “Wait! Wait! Wait!” he shouted, trying to retract his hands from my grip.  Yeah right, most sober people can’t overpower me.
         “You gonna answer me then?”
         And the son of a bitch actually did.  He told me everything.  Who, what, why, where and how, the whole fucking deal.  But I cut his hand off anyways.  Boy did that piss him off; he was lying there screaming, crying , bleeding, throwing up. Some people just can’t hold their liquor. 
        So I left him there, bleeding in the alleyway, probably passing out either from the blood loss or his intoxication; it didn’t matter to me, I got what I was looking for.
        Spitting out the soggy cigarette at the end of the alleyway, I turned and headed down the street, moving from shadow to shadow as passing cars’ headlights flew past.  The streets were empty, like something out of a movie.  Rain stung as it pelted relentlessly, but I didn’t care.  The nights harsh, chilling wind bit at my stubbled face, but I didn’t care.  My mother had always said this weather would be the death of me, but I didn’t care; this wasn’t something I was hoping to live through anyways.
        I walked fairly quickly, block by block, turning here and there, never taking my fingers off the knife hilt.  I could feel the warmth of the blood over my fingers, but I tried to forget about it.
Before I knew it, I was there.  I headed towards the double glass door, as some guy in a ridiculous blue suit and chauffeur’s opened it, with a bow and outstretched hand.  I glared at him, as he wiggled his fingers and winked.
          “What? You wanna lose those fingers?” I asked, showing him the bloodied knife, as I walked past him, into the lobby of the hotel.
          "Sir, you can’t bring weapons into here!” he shouted after me, grabbing me by the shoulder.
            “Looks to me like you wanna lose those fingers…” I said again, turning quickly, grabbing and twisting out of his grip, until I faced him with the knife held to his fingers.  Another blue-suited-asshole appeared behind the main desk, picking up a phone, but before he could dial those damn three numbers, he found himself with a knife in the jugular.  After throwing the knife, I snapped out, punching the bellboy, or whatever, in front of me, shattering his nose. A second blow sent him flying to the floor, unconscious and bleeding profusely.  I tossed a twenty on his back and headed for the elevators.
            Ding.  The doors opened, I walked in.  I pressed a button.  Floor 5.  The doors open again.  I took a right, then another, headed down the hallway until I reached a door.  Room 523.  I reached to knock, but then just kicked the son of a bitch door down.
          The lights were off when I entered, but the TV was on, giving me a little bit of light to see.  There he was, lying face down on the mattress, passed out; I guess I shouldn’t have cut the son of a bitch’s hand off after all, he wasn’t lying.
         I walked over to the bed and sat down on the adjacent one.  The pitiful bastard was snoring like a fucking animal.  So I woke him up with the butt end of my magnum.  Blood seeped through a gash on his forehead as he screamed and jumped back.
         “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he screamed, looking past me at the door that was on the ground.
         “Why did you do it?” I asked; I could feel my anger rising every second.
         “Do what?” he shouted, holding a hand to his bloodied head.
         “Why did you kill her?” I yelled back.
         “Kill who? Who the fuck are you?”
         Wait…
        Rewind again; passed the alleyway, to the bedroom.
        Blood.  Everywhere, blood.  On the floor, on the wall, on the headboard, on the sheets, everywhere.  All over her.  The door seemed to open in slow motion as I tried to comprehend the sight in front of me.  There she was, lying on the bed, covered only in sheets, bloodied sheets at that.  I ran over and picked up her head, tears falling from my eyes, her blood dripped over my hands.  I had to look away.  There, on the floor, a match book. I picked it up.  It was from one of those damn nightclubs downtown.  But she didn’t smoke, and I had never been there.  Spilled wine on the floor mixed with dripping blood from the bed.  Two shattered glasses lay on the rug, next to a single wilting rose…
      Fast forward to the hotel again.
        “Why did you kill her?” I yelled back.
         “Kill who? Who the fuck are you?”
        “You know who I am,” I muttered, anger wringing from my tongue. My fingers clenched cold metal, as warm blood dripped to the floor. He cringed as I lifted the pistol to his face, scampering away on the rugged floor.  I could feel anger coursing through my veins, controlling my fingers, twitching them. Then I grabbed him by the hair, dragging him face to face.
“Why did you fucking kill her?” I shouted once more, smashing his face with the butt end of my gun.
         “I had to! She was cheating on me with someone else!” he said, cowering, holding his hands over his face as if his hands would stop one of my bullets.  They didn’t.  Two shots to confirm the kill and an extra six more just for me.
         “No,” I said, walking away. “She was cheating on me with you.”  And I walked out, gun still in hand, holding back tears as I thought of her.  My wife, my love, that little fucking whore.
© Copyright 2009 JMDiMascio (jmdimascio at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1522889