Alive

Chapter 4: Smoking Kills

2:16 am, the only girls left in this bar are either passed out with vomit clinging to their matted hair, carrying a few too many pounds to be passable even through the most extensive case of beer goggles, or busy sucking face with some bearded biker guy. This would be why the drunk slob on the next table keeps eyeing me up; a rose in a bed of weeds. Little does he know how deadly my thorns are.

40 minutes he's been swaying in his chair, shifting his eyes back and forth, waiting until he thinks I'm not looking, and trying to focus his dark eyes on me. But the visual impairment caused by his ridiculous level of intoxication seems to be past the point of return. I assume my figure is fairly decent as there is no way he can make out much more detail than that in his state, but still he is walking, or rather, staggering, over to me. Slamming his full weight into the battered seat he lazily extends his hand in my direction. Yellow fingertips; a smoker. Doesn't he know that smoking kills?

"Mark." I shook his hand, which was uncomfortably warm.

"And you are?"

"Lily." I'd thought of the cover name the first time I caught him turn his head towards me out of the corner of my eye. I'd known I already had him trapped, like a sleazy little fly in a black widow's web.

"Cute. Like the flower?" The words slurring out of his mouth, and I was unsure if it was a question or if he was informing me on the connotations of my fake name.

"No, like Lily Pons, the opera singer and actress? My mom was a fan of old musicals." The only musical my mother had ever endured was Grease, and that was purely because of her raging crush on John Travolta.

"Huh, cool." I had to hand it to him, despite his inability to look remotely interested, he was still maintaining a conversation. And in a bar this scummy, past 2 am, that's basically worthy of a knighthood.

"So er, can I buy you a drink baby?" I hated pet names but 'baby' took the biscuit. Why would you call someone, who you're hoping to talk into your bed, 'baby'? I mean I know I have some pretty messed up thoughts, but I don't see how there's anything sexy associated with infancy.

"Actually I'm not really thirsty, I'm kinda tired, I'm thinking we should go to bed. If yours is big enough for us both to fit." I lowered my voice and tried to sound as convincing as possible that I was at all interested in this moron, but I didn't have to hide the dead expression on my face due to the fact that his eyes weren't even pointing in the same direction as each other anymore. For a second he looked dumbfounded and then he composed himself as best he could.

"Sure thing hun, my car's out back. After you." He gestured for me to make my way to the door, the movement of his arm knocking his balance a little.

2:54 am. His apartment smells like a boys' locker room, but it'll soon smell like bleach, after I've cleaned up the wonderful mess I'm about to make. He didn't notice the ketamine I spiked his drink with a couple minutes after we stepped through his front door. Silly Mark, everyone knows you shouldn't accept drinks from a stranger unless you've actually seen them pour it - even if it is your own tap water. So here he is, lying on his living room coffee table; coincidentally the perfect size to strap an unconscious guy to. Tonight couldn't be going any better. Although, he is taking a little long to come around; I guess the volume of alcohol in his blood is taking its toll. Whatever, I'm getting impatient now.

"Ah- what... What's going on?" That second slap across the cheek did the trick.

"There's no point trying to sit up Mark. You see the steel wire around your stomach, and your arms and legs? Well that's just gonna cut you more if you carry on struggling. And I don't like to see unnecessary suffering. Hahahaha... Sorry, I couldn't say that with a straight face."

"What the fuck is this? Let me g- ahh!"

"See I told you! And now you're bleeding, well done. Jeez, you try to help people and they just ignore you. It's like, what's the point?"

"Look... if this is some kind of weird sex thing, I mean I'm totally down. But just take this- agh! This fucking wire off of me, that shit hurts. You can tie me down just, I've got handcuffs in a cupboard in my bedroom let me go get those instead. Okay?"

"Mark. Shut up."

"What? Libby just take this fucki-"

"It's Lily you asshole."

"What?"

"My name. It's Lily, not Libby."

"Okay, sorry. Lily. Please just let me go seriously look at my stomach I'm fucking bleeding."

"Yeah. I noticed."

"Fucking psycho bitch let me GO! HELP! SOMEBO- AGH FUCK!"

He looks even more unattractive spluttering everywhere. I figured he'd scream for help at some point so I brought some diluted hydrochloric acid in an old cleaning spray bottle. The second it hits the back of their throats they stop screaming. Works every time. It's amazing how many handy little things you can fit inside a handbag. Those things are like Narnia.

"Please. What do you want from me?"

"Fuck's sake Mark you're making a mess coughing blood everywhere like that. I have to clean up here after I'm done y'know."

I didn't think he'd be a cryer, but apparently I was wrong. I've looked through his apartment, found his bank statements, his stack of final notice letters for unpaid rent and bills. He doesn't have much going for him but still, when faced with death here he is sobbing like a child.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"What are you apologising for? This isn't your fault Mark, it isn't mine either it's just... Shit happens." The white wall to the right of us exploded in colour as I slit his throat with a knife I took from his kitchen. It looked like it needed a new coat of paint anyway. The red streaks along the plasterboard really bring the place to life. How ironic.

He convulsed for a few seconds before the life rushed from his eyes, but between the alcohol and the ketamine I'm pretty sure he didn't feel the knife tearing through his carotid artery.