You are seated at the bar in a nondescript night club downtown. You look beautiful, angelic even. The disco lights illuminate your face and arms, and for a moment, it appears that you are glowing from the inside. But you are not. You are dead inside. You want to hunch up like a tortoise in its shell and let your dignity be whittled away.
“It is okay to give up sometimes,” you murmur to yourself.
Six beer bottles are lined up in front of you as if giving you a standing ovation for being the heaviest drinker in the building. But you are sober, so sober that you would sit for a medical exam if it were given to you. But you don’t want a medical exam. You want to ruin yourself. You want to end it all. It’s the only way.
“Another beer please,” you bellow at the bar attendant, and belch almost simultaneously.
Shifting effortlessly on the towering stool, you adjust your dress with one hand and empty the contents of the beer bottle into a drinking glass with the other. Your legs dangle from the seat as if the high-heeled shoes you are wearing are too heavy for your spaghetti legs.
But you are on a mission today, and the chances of success would be higher with you in heels. You know he would fall for you in heels. They are his weakness, and you know it.
Your head tilted to one side, you pour the cold beer down your throat, gulping and breathing into the glass. Streams of the liquid escape from both ends of your mouth and drop onto your thighs. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and bite on a sliced lemon to kill the beer’s stinging taste on your tongue.
From your seat, your eyes scan the murky room for that familiar face. You know you can spot him even in the darkest of places. There he is. At his normal sitting position alone sipping his drink and looking straight ahead, his doe-like eyes darting around. You strain your eyes to see what he is drinking today, but you cannot. Dizziness is creeping on you like a thief in the night. You are certain it is whiskey. He is a whiskey guy. He has always been for the three months you have been sitting at that bar watching him.
He is handsome in a brooding sort of way and walks with the grace of a cat. Girls often swarm around him, stifling giggles whenever he talked. They all wanted a piece of him. Who wouldn’t? It was your turn tonight. But you knew you would not be coming back. None of the girls he left the club with came back. They vanished like a man’s libido in old age.
You leap from the stool and land on the floor, almost losing your balance. Your legs are failing you. You drag your tiny frame to the darkest corner of the room where your destiny sits waiting.
“Take me home with you.” You whisper in his ear, your hands digging into his half-buttoned shirt. He is unmoved. He taps the sides of his drinking glass almost rhythmically and looks straight ahead.
“Give it to me daddy.” You tease him pinching his nipple.
You know how to awaken the demon in him. You know he will not resist it. He rises, pulls out some money from his back pocket, slams it on the table, and asks you to follow him. You obey.
He drives a red vintage car. A 1920 Volkswagen beetle. It is probably the oldest thing in the vicinity at that moment. You survey it as he fumbles with the lock for what feels like an eternity. It is well-polished for its age as if everything about hit had been boiling towards this moment-to give you a decent send-off. He interrupts your thoughts as he opens the door for you.
“A gentleman.” You think to yourself. Just how you like them.
As you settle into the passenger’s seat, you feel some queasiness in your gut. You want to throw up. It must be the smell of bleach hovering over the car’s interior like a ghost. The engine coughs, and he pulls off.
“How do you want it?” He speaks for the first time as you hit the road.
“What? “You mumble.
“A bullet to the head or a knife to the heart? “
You pass out.

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