Please Stop Me

Born under a bad sign. Maybe star-crossed. It's all really the same thing, right? Bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.

Just left the doctor's office. He announced my death sentence. Six Months, maybe less, maybe more. He handed me a bunch of pamphlets and a scrip for something called dilaudid. He says that the headaches will get worse, but this stuff will kill the pain. Helps you sleep.

Sleep.

I wake up in my room. Laying on the bed studying the pamphlets Doc gave me. Lots of testimonials of folks talking about Job's trials and support of friends and family.

I have neither. I lost my wife two years ago. Car accident.

No Job either. I was laid off. I have some unemployment money, but I live life on a thread.

I'm not going to pick up the scrip Doc gave me. I don't care that I get headaches. I don't care if they get worse. I've wanted to die for a while.

Wish granted.

I've been bitter for a while. Like the black coffee I'm sipping right now. There's a ticking clock and a rotting piece of meat inside of my skull. What to do with the time I have left?

Blood pounds in my ears.

I started watching her corner in the darkness. I know her game. She takes the johns down the alley. Her handler is waiting down there. When the pants come down. He beats them in the head with a bar of soap stuffed in a sock. They've been rolling suckers for a while. I want to play a little game.

Blur......

I passed out across the street from where the vultures roost. I don't remember when or how I got home. I get up off the floor and go to splash some cold water on my face.

I look in the mirror. I'm wearing my old happy face mask from an office Christmas party. Lenore was with me at that party. We kissed under the mistletoe. Both alive and pretty.

The mask is defaced with nail polish or something. I don't know. Maybe I wrote it. It says, "Please Stop Me". My blurry mind and my daytime mind must be on the same page.

On my bed. I want to die, but I want to make somebody else feel what it's like to be....

Born under a bad sign. Maybe star-crossed. Bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.

Night. I put on the mask and gloves. I'm a shadow with the shrubs and lampposts.

Slow night. No customers for the girl on the corner.

My head is pounding.

I move quietly to the alley where her handler is hiding. He has his back to me, relieving himself. Blade moves effortlessly across his neck. He is silent and can dream in hell tonight.

I'm not wearing the face now. I walk up to the girl and ask her on a date. She says sure. She takes me to the alley. She gets ready to go to work and looks around like she's waiting for something. Something is stuffed in the dumpster with his soap in a sock shoved down his throat.

I tell her that a place like this isn't becoming of a lady. I offer her a warm meal and to come back with me to my room.

We sit down and eat in a greasy spoon. Her name is Sandy. Turns out she's addicted to meth and has some form of VD or another. I didn't really pay attention.

We get back to my room. She says, "That was a really nice time. It's been a while since a real gentlemen has bought me dinner."

As the word dinner escapes her lips, I splay and split them with a hard fast jab to her face. She lands on the floor.

I put on the mask. Dazed, with a mouth full of blood, she starts screaming. I hand her the gun I had tucked in my belt. She takes it and I kneel down and force it to my forehead. I tell her, "Please stop me, Sandy, please stop me."

Born under a bad sign. Maybe star-crossed. Bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.

Still confused, shaking. She doesn't have the nerve. Too much shock. Too much fear. She can't help me. My blade kisses her throat. Everything is black and quiet for her now. No more addiction, no more VD.

I wait. I know the neighbors heard. Eventually the sirens come. I can see the lights. The lights of my salvation. I see Lenore. Christmas Parties. Sweet kisses under mistletoe.

I'm covered in someone else's blood. A demon from the pit of hell.

Head pounds.

Lenore, I'm coming home.

The pounding on the door starts. "Police!", some voice yells.

Born under a bad sign. Maybe star-crossed. Bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.

I open the door. Gun in hand.

"Please stop me." I fire as many rounds as I can.

Haze of red. Sun sets to black.