The Gorgeous Slaughter

by Christina Hart

  And I realized it wasn’t difficult. It was too easy, actually, finding someone who was craving your attention. Finding someone who was all but begging for it.

  Thirty-Seven

  I am on my way home from a flower shop about twenty miles away from where I live. My sunglasses are hiding my eyes, and the baseball cap covers most of my hair. I lied and told the lady there that the roses were for my mother. Anyone could believe that. And if she were alive, it’d probably be true. I look at the white roses in the passenger seat and think how lovely they are. The fresh, delicate scent of them is permeating through the car. Will anyone ever love me enough to buy me flowers like these? I get home and go in through my door, the cellar door.

  Is it ironic that the entrance to my bedroom is considered one of the most beautiful phrases in the English language? Cellar door. Is it strange that it is home to an alleged lunatic like me? I go inside and clip the ends of the stems, tossing them into the trash can once I finish. I would have had them delivered, ordered them online. But you can only pay through PayPal or debit/credit card on those sites and I can’t have Tracy being able to track down who they’re from if Troy says they aren’t from him. You just never know these days. Everything is watched, records kept. Cookies being tracked, whatever that means.

  Don’t you ever notice how you go look at a pair of shoes or a bag and then similar shopping ads pop up all over the place for them? I do. They’re watching, they’re always watching. And I know you’re probably wondering who the infamous “they” are, because I am, too. I don’t think we’ll ever know, though. Not yet at least. Maybe one day.

  I log on to Facebook and check Tracy’s activity. What she’s liking and commenting on. Who she’s interacting with. She’s liked three memes and thirteen posts in the last four hours and comments crying-laughing faces. How can she be laughing during a time like this? She should be with Charlie, making sure he’s getting through this, and I hate her more with every second that passes. I close my laptop.

  I open my phone and try to check her Instagram again for the third time today. It’s still private. That bitch. She would think she’s that special to lock away her photos in a place where only her followers could see her. Does she just sit at home all day thinking about how many people want to know what she’s up to? She makes me sick but here I am, having to put myself in the shoes of a man who loves her, wants her, desires her.

  I check her Facebook more often than I check Charlie’s lately. He’s gone ghost. Social media silent. Of course he has. Because when you are going through something like this, the world doesn’t really matter. You block it all out. You get through it the only way you can, however you can. Right now, he doesn’t care about memes and GIFs and what other people are doing with their summer. He doesn’t care about selfies or dumb funny videos or beach photos. Tracy does. Tracy isn’t hurting. She doesn’t care. But I wish she would at least pretend to, for Charlie’s sake.

  I go back to her Facebook and browse through various albums she has. She doesn’t even pretend to read but I wonder if I should send her a poem. Well, if Troy should send her a poem, technically. I search some of my favorite writers for inspiration until I find the perfect piece by J.R. Rogue.

  “He asked me to stop begging him to be a poem

  when he just can’t break his bones enough to be one.”

  I read it over ten times and decide it’s the one. It’s perfect.

  I type it out on my laptop and search for a font that Troy would use. And I print it. I sign Rogue’s name at the bottom and I hope Tracy is smart enough to know this is a gift from Troy. An invitation into his arms. A confession, finally, of the love he has for her. The beginning words to everything he’s always wanted to say to her.

  He’s shy, now. Using someone else’s words as a way to break the ice. And I look at the printed paper and I tear it up. It’s not him. I grab a piece of notebook paper and a black sharpie and write the words from Rogue in all caps. This is more him. Troy would write the words out, on paper. He would use his own hands for this. So I substitute my own for his. I try to make it seem like a guy wrote it. Slightly messy, hurried. I hold it up and inspect it and impress myself. This is good. Convincing. I fold the piece of paper and write TRACY on it, then I tuck it into the pink ribbon around the bouquet.

  If someone did this for me, I’d be theirs in an instant. One second, that’s all it would take. Because Troy doesn’t know about it yet, but I do. The grand gesture. The thing we girls wait for, live for. Someone to love us so much they’d pull the ultimate scheme, the bravest act, just to get our attention and show us how much they need us. There’s romance in that, in the action, the climax, in something that transcends anything words could ever say. That’s usually where guys go wrong. They talk a lot. They say they’ll do this, or that, try to convince you how they’re such a great guy, not a fuck boy like the rest of them. And sometimes you’ll slip up, you’ll believe them, even if it’s complete bullshit, which it is, at least seventy-five percent of the time.

  Nikki once said to me, “You know who says they aren’t fuck boys? Fuck boys.” If it wasn’t one of the truest things I’ve ever heard. A few of them proved us both right. I had no choice but to believe it. And they are skilled at it, saying whatever they have to say just to get you out of your clothes. I don’t know if it’s a gift or something they learn along the way. I don’t know if it’s a tragedy that we fall for it or if we believe them just because we want so badly to.

  But Troy? He’s not one of those guys. Just look at what he’s doing for the girl he loves. Flowers, poems, the whole nine. He’s willing to go the distance, be there for the one he loves. Because he’s respectable, a worthy suitor. A guy who actually does deserve the girl. A gentleman in an era full of Tinder swipers and Bumble stumblers and OKCupid matches. And he’s not one of those “nice guys”. A guy pretending to be nice, a guy who actually hates women. He’s the real deal, not a “Chad”, and he’s going to prove that to Tracy, tonight.

  Thirty-Eight

  I wait until 12:30am to drive to Tracy’s house. It’s the perfect time for a Wednesday in the summer. Not too late that a car on the road will be weird, but late enough that everyone at Tracy’s should be sleeping. I’m doing a quick drive-by/drop-off in the dark. The flowers will go in Tracy’s mailbox. It’s perfect. Their mailbox is big enough for the flowers to fit. I know that because of the street view thanks to Google. Also, thanks to things like Google street view, I feel like people everywhere are a little less safe.

  Do you know how many maniacs there are out there? What if someone wanted to hurt you? And Google street view just allows them a firsthand view into your home, your world, your life. It’s crazy. Really. Complete psychopaths can study your house, the color of your door, your driveway. Where each entrance is. They could know how to break in before they ever even physically show up. The world gets more and more dangerous every day, with every technological advance. I bet there were less killers a hundred years ago.

  The mailbox is almost embarrassing, even for me. It’s a big blue version of their white home. How obsessed with yourselves and your own things can you possibly be? My stomach turns at how much these people love themselves. I wonder if it’s blue because that’s the color Tracy’s father would have preferred their home. Maybe it’s his favorite color and maybe he fought about it with the missus for a while but eventually gave up. If she’s anything like Tracy, I’m sure she has her husband wrapped right around her finger. I’m not sure why anyone would need such a big mailbox, though. It just goes to show you their personalities. Larger than life, or maybe it’s just a desperate need to show off what they can afford, one-up their neighbors with the biggest mailbox on the block. I bet during Christmas her father has to put the most extravagant lights and decorations up, too.

  It’s a contest, in places like this. I guess people who have everything have nothing better to do sometimes, so they buy whatever they can simply because they can. And for Tracy’s parents, wh
o are retired, where work is a thing of the past, they probably just go nuts during the holidays, buy the most random shit they can, make their house sparkle and glow like it’s an entire city all in itself. They have to keep up appearances, you know, in a town like this. God forbid your grass gets too long, the neighbors will complain, whisper, say the money made you lazy. And maybe it has. I haven’t looked into her parents. There’s no need to, not much curiosity there. I don’t care about the people who raised her. I only care about the person she is today, what will drive her decisions tomorrow. What gestures will sway her, steer her into Troy’s arms and away from Charlie. I can’t afford something spectacular to gift her, but really, what else does she need that money can buy? I don’t think any of that interests her much. If she wanted something, she’d have it. And I’m going to make her want Troy. Something money can’t buy. A challenge. Surely someone like Tracy would appreciate a gesture, a poem over a necklace. Flowers over diamonds. Something that took time versus something that cost mere money.

  I drive through Tracy’s neighborhood with her address set in my GPS. The houses are absolutely huge, gigantic homes meant for huge families and tons of people. They’re built to entertain, to throw lavish parties at, have drinks by the pool, dinner on the patio. Gates to keep out the peasants, like me. Some of them even have titles. Manors and estates. Jesus Christ. I feel out of place in this town, in this car, driving past the shiny new models and BMWs and fancy everything. It almost smells like money out here, in the dead of night. I haven’t passed a stray cat or person walking. I imagine they’re all sleeping, early risers. With executive jobs to get to in the morning and fancy-people things to do.

  I finally pull up to the house. I’m wearing a hoodie and jean cut-off shorts. My sweatshirt hood has been up the entire way here, despite the heat, just in case, and I leave it up. I had put on my sunglasses when I was three minutes away, another precaution. You can never be sure who’s watching. I slow my car as I pull up to Tracy’s neighbor’s house, gently hitting the brakes until I come to a full stop. I look around, look at the houses around me for any lights on. I see a few, but none too alarming. No one is outside. I hear no voices, not even radiating from any televisions All I hear is the clicking of my car as I open the door and get out.

  I walk to Tracy’s mailbox, looking around for any sign of life. I hear each footstep of mine hit the pavement, softly. I’m walking briskly but not in alarming way. Like this is no big deal, as though I am a friend of Tracy’s just coming to drop something off. I reach the mailbox. This little replica really does look like their home. It’s easy for me to open. I make little noise as I open the mailbox and slip the flowers in, and even less when I close it. I leave it open just a tad. To let them know in the morning that someone was here, and he wasn’t afraid to come. I walk back to my car, close the door as quietly as I can, and pull away from the neighbor’s house. I drive past and turn around at the next street.

  As I come back to pass their house again I stop across the street, two houses down, pulling behind another car parked on the road. From here, I can see Tracy’s house clearly. There’s a light on in there. I wonder if it’s Tracy’s room and what it’s like to live in a house like that. To have a bedroom in there. I wonder what it’s like to have two parents who love you.

  I almost hate myself for giving her a secret admirer, for adding yet another interesting element to her perfect life. As if she needs anything else. She already has Charlie, and now, she’ll have Troy, too.

  Thirty-Nine

  I get home from delivering Tracy’s roses and check in on POTG. I’ve been neglecting my patients for days due to the sudden death of Charlie’s mother. I had to be there for him. And if taking away some of his pain is with a little distraction about his cheating girlfriend, that’s exactly how I’ll do it.

  I have seven new DMs. I check in with my patients, send the texts I owe them. I listen to them. I haven’t heard from Sarah and I wonder if she’s checked in to a facility somewhere. If she was brought there against her will or if she went willingly. This is how it goes for some people. Unfortunately for Sarah, she’s one of them.

  Nikki has been a no call/no show for weeks and I wonder if she’s finally had enough of my shit. But I don’t want our friendship to die because of a drunken night, a mistake. I text her and ask her if she’s up and I can’t help feeling like I sound like a one-night-stand that slipped up and caught feelings.

  “Yeah, why?” she responds immediately.

  “Just wondering. I miss you,” I say. I know she wanted space but I gave it to her. If she didn’t want to be friends anymore, she could just tell me. I wouldn’t allow her to just freely walk out of my life without as much as a goodbye. I allowed my father to do that, and it’s not something I’ll do again.

  I chat with some of my patients, send their weekly pick-me-ups and questions to reflect on. I post a Robin Williams quote and watch all the likes, comments, and new follows roll in. I respond to the comments with heart emojis and occasional words of encouragement. Sometimes it only takes a few seconds to spread hope to someone who needs it. I encourage everyone to share something about themselves in the comments, to speak with one another.

  It’s almost 1:30am when I hear a soft knock on the door. I get up to answer it, knowing it’s probably Nikki. My suspicions are confirmed when I open the door and see her standing there. Her brown hair is up in a messy bun and she has on Victoria’s Secret PINK sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  It’s one of those moments where neither of us know what to say, but the look on her face tells me she wants to say something, and it’s probably similar to whatever expression I have. Because she grabs me and hugs me and I hug her back for as long as I can before she lets go.

  “Come in,” I say.

  “Can we just not talk about what happened? Like, ever again?” she says.

  “Yes please,” I say. “I’d rather not relive that.”

  She laughs. “Ugh. Same. It feels like it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Your hair! It’s dark again,” she says, touching it.

  “Yeah, I dyed it back,” I say, stopping there, almost forgetting what I’ve told her and what I haven’t. I hate keeping anything from her and suddenly, I want to tell her all of it. Charlie. The Instagram. Tracy. Troy. Everything.

  “You get sick of the upkeep? Having blonde hair is fun but it’s such a pain in the ass. Roots coming back every week. It’s a nightmare.”

  “Yeah, it was just annoying,” I lie.

  “Well now we’re back to being twinzies,” she says, smiling, saying the last word sarcastically.

  “Yeah I missed having dark hair. But more importantly, I missed you! Tell me everything! What have I missed?”

  She lies back on the bed. “Ugh, girl. Well, me and Dan are over. Through. I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “At the start,” I say. “What happened?”

  She starts going on about how she kept seeing him check his phone and how she had this gut feeling he was talking to another girl.

  “But, I thought you guys weren’t technically together, together?” I ask.

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “I don’t care if we’re officially dating or not, he shouldn’t be texting another girl right in front of me.”

  I tell her she’s right and let her finish her story. She goes on to tell me how she grabbed his phone from him and saw that he was talking back and forth with some girl named Katie. She ended it with him right then and there. Told him she was done, and not to call her or text her again.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her. “Like are you sad about it at all?”

  She leans her head against the pillow. “Eh, I don’t know. I’m okay, but maybe a little sad. He was fun. I liked him.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You could always give him another chance and…”

  “No, Love,” she says. “I keep trying to tel
l you not to give people second chances. It shouldn’t work like that. Not with guys anyway.”

  I wanted to disagree with her. Here we were, sitting here talking again after giving each other multiple chances. Over the years, I’d lost count just how many that is. My phone dings.

  She moves. I realize it’s on the bed, where she’s sitting. She picks it up and looks at the screen. “Some girl named Rebecca DMed you. Who’s that?” she asks.

  I grab my phone from her. “It’s no one.”

  She sits up now and kind of laughs. “Why won’t you just tell me who it is? Why are you getting all weird about it?”

  “Why are you getting weird about it? I’m not Dan, you know. I’m not cheating on you with someone else.”

  “Wow,” she says. “Starting the fighting early this time, I see. And you haven’t even been drinking. I’m impressed.”

  “Impressed with what, exactly?” I ask.

  “How much nastier you get every time I see you. You could at least pretend like you want to be friends again instead of just saying it.”

  “I do want to be friends,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

  She stands up to go. “Yeah, fine. Tomorrow.” She walks toward the door. “Maybe you should get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks for being such a great listener.” She tosses the last words over her shoulder before she slams the door behind her.

  And I watch the door even though it’s closed. And I think to myself, how many times can you fuck up with the same person before the relationship finally dies? And why do we still hold on despite it?

  Forty

  I watch social media the next day like a hawk, checking Tracy’s Facebook several times every hour. She doesn’t post about the roses and it’s too unlike her. Part of me fears she won’t tell Charlie because of what he’s going through. Maybe I was wrong, and so was the timing. Where are her selfish notions coming in to play here? Maybe by keeping it to herself? I thought this was going to play out differently. But this won’t be for nothing. Because while Charlie is home, healing, Tracy is getting attention from a man who isn’t broken right now. A man who can give her what she needs most. Attention. Desire.