narrative: YOU PUT A GUN IN MY BROTHER'S HANDS
The girl is cautious and awkward under the ratty bleached hair she wears, like a rat's nest, in place of shelter and solace. Her (green) eyes shine oddly bright like they reflect too too much of the neon afterglow of the signs littering this carefully cultivated garden of shops and playthings.
She is playing a part and it's a part that he wants, a part he's been looking for since he woke up this morning, put on a fancy tie, and went to work. The restlessness, the discomfort, hovers over him like a cheap cologne (it's there too, under the repressed desires that surface like whales at sea).
He is not a good customer and there are others who pull back and pull others back, but this one - this one doesn't notice or doesn't care.
Girls like her don't last long. That's part of the appeal, even as the rest of the world grits its teeth and cries "no, this is how it's not supposed to be." Children this stupid ought to be shoved away from streets he might have to walk. They often are and it makes this even harder for him because it is not his fault they come to him like this, with a smile and an awkward stare.
He is not a predator. A predator ruins what it catches, but he preserves it, savors it, loves it.
Something in the way this girl clutches her fingers close to her palm like they might skitter away of their own volition makes him think she wants that kind of love, though she knows she deserves nothing of the kind.
It makes him smile, not unkindly, and nod to her. Carefully, now, awkwardly, they go through the motions.
Some people want the messy ones, but he always prefers the ones who know they have something to share with the world - even under the messy hair she wears he can see she knows she has something.
They begin to talk, in the light of the signs, a conversation gradually slipping from options and guidelines and courtesies to something a little more personal, once they've pretended to establish their boundaries. It never stays that simple, with these girls. He knows.
She tells him a story about a girl who ran away from home because everything she loved about her home had died and she knew peace would never come to her again. She left family behind but they had long since stopped being family. He makes understanding, sympathetic gestures, offers to embrace her, not out of a need for warmth - she's oddly overdressed - and she flinches.
Sorry, she says.
He smiles. It's all right. (It's always all right.) I won't hurt you. You couldn't charge me that much.
Something flickers in her eyes but he doesn't understand what it means. It isn't a warning and it isn't a lie - but it might be something else. Something he has never really understood. Maybe someday, when he knows what he's looking for in green eyes like the ones the girl before him wears so anxiously. He'll always have those eyes looking back at him, from now on.
She keeps an apartment nearby and she takes him there. It's made up nicely, with a painting or two on the walls and a stereo with a rack of CDs set up in the left corner of the bedroom - he's never liked that sort of thing, but he understands the need to connect with something besides bodies in a room - with a girl - like this.
She takes off her jacket and he is not prepared for what he sees. The smile on her face is soft and understanding. They aren't family anymore, she says, looking away so she can't see what might be in his eyes.
He says her name to make her look back, because he doesn't want her to see anything that isn't in his eyes. He had forgotten what it was earlier, but scattered on the floor are several books and one of them lying haphazardly open had her name stamped on the inside front cover.
It's all right. (It's always all right. He wonders if they understand why that is, this young.)
He wants her to shut the door to the kitchen, too, but he can't bring himself to tell her now that he's seen what others have done to her. He shuts it with his own hand, and the click makes her turn back slightly to look at him over her shoulder.
It would be strange to do this in front of an open door, he says, privacy is important to me.
It's important to me too. She nods, moves herself on the bed. The box of condoms moves to the stand beside her. Whenever you want to start. You said you wanted to do it yourself?
He can feel sharp breath on his neck as his fingers play under the fabric of her straps and he knows she likes it this way, careful with promise.
He knows. He knows she'll like it even more later, so he smiles.
She smiles too, a warm, ticklish sensation against his skin.
This is good. This is the start of the right thing to do.
The knife rests in the bottom of his suitcase, waiting.
(He'll never see her eyes again.)
Later, standing over the edge of the firepit, Eliza closes her eyes and lets the smoke eat at her tears. At least she isn't hungry anymore.
When she goes back to the apartment, she locks herself in the bathroom and lets the shower wash away any tears she might start to shed - and the blood, too.
She is playing a part and it's a part that he wants, a part he's been looking for since he woke up this morning, put on a fancy tie, and went to work. The restlessness, the discomfort, hovers over him like a cheap cologne (it's there too, under the repressed desires that surface like whales at sea).
He is not a good customer and there are others who pull back and pull others back, but this one - this one doesn't notice or doesn't care.
Girls like her don't last long. That's part of the appeal, even as the rest of the world grits its teeth and cries "no, this is how it's not supposed to be." Children this stupid ought to be shoved away from streets he might have to walk. They often are and it makes this even harder for him because it is not his fault they come to him like this, with a smile and an awkward stare.
He is not a predator. A predator ruins what it catches, but he preserves it, savors it, loves it.
Something in the way this girl clutches her fingers close to her palm like they might skitter away of their own volition makes him think she wants that kind of love, though she knows she deserves nothing of the kind.
It makes him smile, not unkindly, and nod to her. Carefully, now, awkwardly, they go through the motions.
Some people want the messy ones, but he always prefers the ones who know they have something to share with the world - even under the messy hair she wears he can see she knows she has something.
They begin to talk, in the light of the signs, a conversation gradually slipping from options and guidelines and courtesies to something a little more personal, once they've pretended to establish their boundaries. It never stays that simple, with these girls. He knows.
She tells him a story about a girl who ran away from home because everything she loved about her home had died and she knew peace would never come to her again. She left family behind but they had long since stopped being family. He makes understanding, sympathetic gestures, offers to embrace her, not out of a need for warmth - she's oddly overdressed - and she flinches.
Sorry, she says.
He smiles. It's all right. (It's always all right.) I won't hurt you. You couldn't charge me that much.
Something flickers in her eyes but he doesn't understand what it means. It isn't a warning and it isn't a lie - but it might be something else. Something he has never really understood. Maybe someday, when he knows what he's looking for in green eyes like the ones the girl before him wears so anxiously. He'll always have those eyes looking back at him, from now on.
She keeps an apartment nearby and she takes him there. It's made up nicely, with a painting or two on the walls and a stereo with a rack of CDs set up in the left corner of the bedroom - he's never liked that sort of thing, but he understands the need to connect with something besides bodies in a room - with a girl - like this.
She takes off her jacket and he is not prepared for what he sees. The smile on her face is soft and understanding. They aren't family anymore, she says, looking away so she can't see what might be in his eyes.
He says her name to make her look back, because he doesn't want her to see anything that isn't in his eyes. He had forgotten what it was earlier, but scattered on the floor are several books and one of them lying haphazardly open had her name stamped on the inside front cover.
It's all right. (It's always all right. He wonders if they understand why that is, this young.)
He wants her to shut the door to the kitchen, too, but he can't bring himself to tell her now that he's seen what others have done to her. He shuts it with his own hand, and the click makes her turn back slightly to look at him over her shoulder.
It would be strange to do this in front of an open door, he says, privacy is important to me.
It's important to me too. She nods, moves herself on the bed. The box of condoms moves to the stand beside her. Whenever you want to start. You said you wanted to do it yourself?
He can feel sharp breath on his neck as his fingers play under the fabric of her straps and he knows she likes it this way, careful with promise.
He knows. He knows she'll like it even more later, so he smiles.
She smiles too, a warm, ticklish sensation against his skin.
This is good. This is the start of the right thing to do.
The knife rests in the bottom of his suitcase, waiting.
(He'll never see her eyes again.)
Later, standing over the edge of the firepit, Eliza closes her eyes and lets the smoke eat at her tears. At least she isn't hungry anymore.
When she goes back to the apartment, she locks herself in the bathroom and lets the shower wash away any tears she might start to shed - and the blood, too.