DEAD(ish)

Confession

"You're like a priest, right? You aren't allowed to testify against me and shit? Not quite? Oh, fuck it. I don't care anymore. Help me out, I pay you, and then if you want you can dob me in. I'm too tired to give a shit, I just wanna get rid of the bitch.

"So, I killed my girlfriend. Weirdly, it was accidental. I say weirdly, because - but that's a whole 'nother cricket game. Let's not go there, eh?

"We were arguing because I saw her fucking the next door neighbours - gay guys, go figure! - on their back veranda. Both of them. High noon, bright daylight, but then the backyard is only visible from one place - ours. And we were never that interested in watching the naked, oil-slicked adventures that went on there. Well I weren't. Wasn't. Obviously Linda was a bit more interested than I'd thought. Guess they did make me look bloody boring. Kama Sutra and oil and moans of ecstasy. Linda and I went for good old missionary position and I came every time and she never complained. That seemed good enough. Well, fuck me. I was wrong.

"Damn, I've lost track. Right. I killed Linda. But like I say, it was accidental. I know all murderers say that, except the freakazoids who eat people's faces while they're alive and tied up, then fry their fingers and make haggis - shit. Off topic again.

"It was accidental. Just believe me. We were arguing, she told me I fuck like a jellyfish (what the fuck?), and I slapped her. One of those girly i'm-so-pissed-off-you-arsehole slaps. I'd be embarrassed about that if there was anyone still alive who saw it. Except me. But it knocked her off her stilettos -the only things she was wearing except for a coating of oil - stinking like a whorehouse in summer - and a smug smirk. It was the smirk that did for me, but it was the high heels what did for Linda. She went sideways and lost her balance on those tall, stupid spiky things and went down, smacking her head on the 'occasional table' with a nasty-sounding thump.

"She died 12 or so hours later. In her sleep. We'd called a truce and gone to bed and fucked (yeah, missionary position) and slept. I woke up clutching a dead-cold cadaver that wouldn't move so I could take a pulse.

"Fuck. Reliving that has me crying like a little girl. I'm off to get a beer. See you later."

****

"Oh, fuck. You're back? How much did I drink last night? And what the fuck is playing on my sound system? Oh fuck, girly stalker music, Deborah Harry, just what I fucking need right now.

"Fuck. My head is pounding in time to the island beat, like someone's ramming a red-hot poker through it each time a stick hits a drum. And I need to chuck. Fuck off for a bit while I surf the porcelain bus. And turn off that bloody music on your way out. If she'll let you."

****

"So, I was sounding like a utter psycho last time you were here. But you've gotta understand, mate - I'm living in a little piece of hell. In fact, I reckon demons sticking pitchforks in my arse while I stand on hot coals sounds easy-peasy right now. Because this silly bitch has more imagination than any demon. Anyone'd think she'd been studying up on interrogation techniques - minoring in Breaking The Bastard Down.

"So far i've had feminist crap music being played full-bore in the early morning (like, 3am), my TV switching channels every time I relax, the fridge and freezer being unplugged, my BBQ's exploded... I'm a man on the edge. Coffee doesn't help anymore. Besides, I have to go to the cafe to get one because she'll switch the sugar with salt just for a laugh. And you don't wanna drink coffee with salt in it. Ever tried? It's the nastiest thing i've ever tasted, and i've tasted some nasty shit. Including Linda.

"Lemme give you an idea of one of my days, OK? Yesterday. I woke up, and there was no music playing. Thank God, I think, she's gotten the hint and buggered off. So I sit up, and my foot lands in a slime of cat vomit. Don't wanna know where the hell she got that from. So I swear and wipe off my foot and she pinches me on the bum while I'm doing it and I fall on my arse and set off my sciatica, like she knew it would. I hobble to the bathroom to piss, and then take a look in the mirror. My hair's blue, and my eyebrows are orange, and my skin's green. I look like a smurf, a munchkin and an oompa loompa had an orgy and I was their love-child. Shit. I get into the shower and scrub and scrub. I get out and check the mirror, and discover that it's changed... Not a bit. Fuck fuck fuck. So I give up, and I go to the cafe anyway. Everyone's staring and laughing the whole way there, and then the staff are goggling and trying not to be rude.

"Psycho ex," I explain and grin like the fuckin' Cheshire cat, and shit if it doesn't work - they all smile sympathetically and the bloke at the coffee machine makes me a free extra-large iced coffee thing with extra cream. Then, because he's a smart-arse, puts green, blue and orange sprinkles on top. Whatever. Caffeine. Cholesterol. Sugar. Heaven. Temporarily, of course. Cos then Linda turns up, right in public. She sits opposite me and one of the staff come over to take her order. She asks for a double espresso, black, hot. I frown at her but can hardly say, "Bugger off, you're a ghost!" in front of everyone, can I? So I sweat it out, and her double espresso arrives. She throws it in my face and disappears.

"The staff are all gaping. Well hell, they did just see a woman disappear into thin air. I count my options and quickly look as confused as anybody else. To help matters, I squeeze out a tear or two. Not too hard considering I just had scalding liquid all over my face.

"So there you have it. You're the exorcist - how the hell do we get rid of this chick?"

****

(Trent)

I sit in the chair, listening to this pale shadow of a man pour out his crappy black heart to me, and I do my best to look sympathetic. MUSTN'T smirk! We don't want to put the wind up him. Professional pride aside, Linda would kill me if I stuff this up.