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you’re not the one,
but you’re the only one
who can make me
feel like this
you’re not the one,
but you’re the only one
who can make me
feel like shit
~Foo Fighters: The One~
Whenever they pick up boys, they are always thin and fair,
with black hair longer than it should be. They find boys like this slouching in
corners, dancing wildly at clubs, looking bewildered as they watch all the
happy blond children getting picked up by their parents after school. They’re
all alone, all sweetly strong and deceptively fragile-seeming, all like an open
wound, nerves exposed but already healing over. They are all beautiful, but
none of them are Jordan, so they all end up dead.
The last one was named Dylan, and X stabbed him while his
dick was still inside him. “Can you feel Christ inside you?” he’d said over the
boy’s panted moans. When Dylan said yes, X thrust the knife into the boy’s
stomach at the same moment he thrust his cock inside. There was blood
everywhere, and X fucked him as he was dying.
All Amy could do was watch, and hope that maybe next time X
tried that, he’d end up stabbing himself in the dick.
They always pretend that they’re not going out to pick up
anyone. And if they do pick up someone, they pretend they’re not going to fuck
him. And if they fuck him, they pretend they’re not going to kill him, but its
all just a game with no point. They’re alright alone for awhile, but after a
few weeks they end up at each other’s throats, and they need someone else,
someone to absorbed all the shockwaves between them, he way Jordan used to. But
all they can do is fuck each other through him, and he’s always just a little
too mean, a little too timid, a little too bland. Not Jordan.
But they can’t do it without him. They tried, a few months
after Jordan was killed, and X couldn’t get it up, and when he finally just
used his fingers Amy started crying, and wouldn’t stop until she came. X had
freaked so much that he got all four fingers inside of her, and she had ached
for a week afterwards. How fucking metaphoric.
Instead they just sleep together. They share a bed and wrap
themselves around each other and then don’t want to wake up. They smoke
cigarettes and drive and don’t say a word. Amy does so much crystal meth that
she thinks her brain is frying, and doesn’t eat anything until X holds her down
on the bed and forces food into her mouth. They go to the movies and laugh and
hold hands, and they only shop in convenience stores and thrift stores and
Walmarts. Everything is cheap and easy and nothing ever rises above the price
range of $6.66.
And they go out at night to clubs, to record stores, to
anywhere where a poor quiet pretty boy would be alone at night, anywhere where
such a boy would be willing to go back to their motel room and let Amy fuck
him. If Amy fucks him he’ll almost always let X fuck him, especially if X fucks
him through Amy’s body.
The first time X fucked one of them, Amy was surprised, but
not too surprised. She remembers the looks X and Jordan gave each other, the
way they would talk in bed, faces inches away from each other, when she went to
the bathroom. She remembers the look on Jordan’s face when X touched him that
first time, that only time, his gasp when he realized he could feel X’s cock
through her insides.
Besides, it was beautiful, the boy’s slim white thighs
wrapped around X’s hips, the savage look on X’s face, their pants and moans and
grunts, like they were trying to find a way inside of each other. Even when X
wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck and squeezed,
the boy looked so peaceful, so euphoric, and the whole thing was so beautiful
that she didn’t realize that he was dead until X pulled out and licked the come
off the boy’s stomach. “Yum. When they die, they come like a fuckin’ firehose.”
And then Amy had started yelling about bodies and not making
such a fucking mess all the time, and she hit him and he grabbed her wrists and
she’d started crying. X wrapped her
in his arms and made little soothing noises and then her eyes had just dried up
and she said, “Come on.” They picked up the body and put his clothes on and
carried him out to the car, and then they drove him to the worst part of town
and threw him in the dumpster.
The next night they were in a whole other town, and they
went to the movies and laughed, and Amy actually ate something besides an extra
large cherry Slurpster. X hugged her and they talked about something besides
boys or Jordan or killing things and everything felt so surprisingly normal that it made Amy want to puke.
* * *
They’ve killed all of them, except for one, and even X
doesn’t know that he isn’t dead. They met Dark on the campus of some tiny
university in LA, and he’d looked exactly like Jordan, from his face to his nipples
to his thin white feet. Everything was the same except for his eyes.
Jordan had always seemed so alive, so innocent. He’d been
fifteen, and Dark was nineteen and jaded and willing to let anyone do anything
to him, as long as he could film it.
They let him. He set the camera on a tripod at the end of
the bed and Amy couldn’t kiss him. X did though, and then Dark had gotten on
top and they’d fucked so hard that the bed broke. X’s hand had reached out for
the knife but Amy snatched it away, and after Dark came he collapsed on top of
X for a long moment, and then fucked himself on X’s cock so he would come, too.
Afterwards he’d climbed off, and cleaned himself up and
pulled on his loose, dark clothing. He’d brushed his hair back and smiled just
like Jordan, that puppy dog grin, as he pulled his boots on. “So what, you just
watch while your boyfriend fucks them?”
Amy narrowed her eyes, but nodded.
Dark shrugged. “I’m only asking cause all the ones that’ve
showed up dead had jism up their asses. You might want to find a new MO if you
don’t want the police to track you.”
Everything stopped, just for a moment, everything was still.
And then it was like a movie that had been rewound and then fast-forwarded:
everything started up again and X rubbed a hand lazily over his belly and said,
“Is that so? Well, when we want your opinion, you milk-white cumbucket, we’ll
tell you.”
Amy put on her panties, picked up her keys, and said, “Lets
go.”
They left X there, and when they got in the car, they were
silent for awhile, the only noise the flick of Amy’s lighter as she lit Dark’s
cigarette and her own.
Amy started speaking almost without her own permission.
“Look, just so you know, I’m not going to kill you. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be anything personal.”
Dark was filming, the camera turned not on her but on
himself. “I think its entirely personal.” He looked over at her. “That guy
called me Jordan.”
Amy stiffened but didn’t do anything, so he continued. “That
was his name, right? You all were accomplices in those weird murders, and then
you killed him and dumped him in some warehouse. I read about it in the paper.
And then all these guys who look like me—and I guess like Jordan—started
showing up dead and covered in come.” He shrugged. “At least its interesting.”
Every vein and artery in her body was close to bursting, her
tendons about to popping from tension. Her fingernails were digging caverns
into the steering wheel. When her voice finally worked, it came out tiny. “We
didn’t kill him.”
Dark accepted it the same way he accepted everything else.
“Oh.” They were silent for awhile longer, and then he said, “His name was
Montgomery. This alien, like, crawled inside his body, and he exploded all over
my bed like Johnny Depp in Nightmare on Elm Street. When they found me I was
holding onto some of his skin and covered in his blood, but they had to let me
go because it didn’t match his blood type. It wasn’t even human.”
Amy just nodded. Nothing surprised her anymore. She was just
happy he hadn’t called her “Montgomery baby” and started berating her for
leaving him. A dickhead in every county seemed to have had a girlfriend who
looked like her.
When they stopped at his house, Dark looked at her, and she
leaned over and kissed him softly. Goodbye, Jordan. When she pulled away, the
look on his face was so horrified and confused that she had to ask, “What?”
“Aren’t you gonna kill me?”
Amy stared at him for a long moment, and then said, “What.
The. Fuck.”
Dark brandished his camera like a weapon, so hurt, so
betrayed. “I thought you were gonna kill me, Amy, that’s why I brought this. I’m gonna film my own death. I’ve
always been convinced it was gonna be huge and bloody and soon, and now I know it.”
He was so, so not
Jordan, and he didn’t get anything at all. Nobody really wanted to die, unless they were big fucking morons. Like
this guy, apparently. “Get the fuck out of my car.”
“No. Just fucking
kill me, alright? If you did it to those other guys, you can at least do it to
me.” He looked at her with big puppy eyes, but they weren’t Jordan’s eyes, and
he couldn’t pull off pathetic nearly as well. “Please? For me?”
He looked so fucking sad that she almost did it, but when
she pulled out her knife his eyes lit up like a child’s and he fumbled his camera
open. He fucking wanted this.
She stabbed him in the thigh and rolled him out of the car.
When she got back to the motel X was still naked and
watching TV. When he asked if she killed the little fucker, she said yes and
then crawled into bed with him, stripping off her dress and boots after she was
already under the covers.
The next night, they were in a new town with a new boy in
their bed, and Amy still hadn’t cleaned Dark’s blood off her knife.
THE END
