Devil You Know

INTENTIONS

MALICE

THE REDDISH water slowly fades to a pale pink as I scrub the reminder of who I've become from my hands. Reaching for the bottle of degreaser—which is ace for removing blood from cuticles—I sigh as the echo of the neighbor's door slamming bounces off my house. Douche-bag's off for more tail. Eyeing the black bottle in my hands I chuckle at how domestic this part of my evening has become. I'm so attuned to a life of blood and gore that I have a damn collection of products which have been carefully selected over the years for their inane ability to remove any trace of evidence that might remain on my skin, my clothes, or in my hair.

Award winning husband material right here. Bet I'd be some lucky girl's wet dream when she realizes how much of a domestic god I am.

The dark flash of the fuckwit next door's hair draws my eye upward, and I watch as the top of his head bobs along our shared fence. Shutting the kitchen tap off with my wrist, I blindly reach for a hand towel, and eye him hesitate around about where his car should be. For reasons unknown, my chest constricts and I hang with baited breath as I towel my hands, waiting to see if he goes back inside.

Go on, moron. Have the night off and stay with your wife.

The life of my unnamed neighbors has become morbid entertainment for me over the last few months. The asshole goes out without her most nights, stumbling home drunk—either having driven himself there, or after being dropped off by one of two cars that I've seen. How she puts up with it, I have no idea.

But if I were him, I'd be staying home with what I've got.

I could count on one hand the times I've seen her. But it doesn't take a close-up to know the woman's stunning. Dark hair swept off an oval face, and haunting eyes that hold so much sadness—no doubt from the asshole who's now getting in to the car. Moron.

She's made her way down to the letterbox a few times in the time I've lived here, and yeah, every occasion I've stopped what I was doing to watch it. Her tiny frame, so lean and fragile intrigues me. She looks so vulnerable, but there's an air about the way she moves which hints at a deeper strength.

I want to talk to her, explore the mind of a woman who hides in her house while her husband goes out to fuck knows where. But there's no chance of it. No hope. I don't live a life that allows for acquaintances, no matter how attractive they are.

My phone lights up on the counter, and watching the neighbor's tail-lights recede, I pick it up and answer.

"Yeah?"

"All go well?" Ty, one of my few friends.

"Yeah. Got half of it back."

"That's more than we were expecting," he says with sincere surprise.

"Yeah, I know. Thought the fucker would have snorted the lot by now." I glance down at my hands, searching for any trace of the man we're discussing.

"You pass on the good news to our friends?"

"Yeah. I phoned Bruno and let him know."

"Good shit. Hey, Tigger's heading over if you're restless?"

I shake my head, despite the fact he can't see me. "Nah, man. I'm beat. The asshole took a bit of wrestling to keep under control. Think I might just pop the top off a bottle and see what bullshit's on TV."

"You're such an old lady."

"Fuck you," I say with a chuckle. "Somebody has to keep scraping you assholes off the ground when you've had too much in a night. Can't do that if I'm just as wasted as you, eh?"

"Guess not," Ty replies, chuckling. "Speaking of which, our man's just arrived and he's waving a small bag with my name on it under my nose."

"I'll call you assholes in the morning to see if you need Nana to come cook you breakfast."

"You're too good to us," Ty laughs. "Enjoy your TV dinner."

"Setting my floral tray table up now."

Ty laughs and says his goodbyes before hanging up. I worry about him and his tendency to get wasted every weekend. At least these days it's green he's smoking and not the hard stuff he used to get trashed on. Perhaps I am an old lady worrying about him like I do? But fuck, with the business we're in, somebody has to look out for them.

Sure as shit nobody we work for will be.

Retrieving a pre-made meal from the freezer, I stand by the microwave while it reheats and stare out the window again at the house next door. The light blue flicker of a TV illuminates the curtains, but other than that the place is quiet. More than I can say for the nights the asshole is home. Yeah, I've heard them argue. I've heard him yelling, and sometimes she shouts back. But it's chilling how little she protests. The woman never seems to fight it, and the thought he's broken her to that level leaves me ill.

Why though? They're my neighbors, nothing more. As long as he doesn't kill her, it's none of my business how they live their lives. Then again, even if he did kill her, who would I be to say anything about it?

Hello pot? This is kettle.