Return To Sender

The rain numbs my hands, but pain gives them the fire of reflex. I wish I had the same fire, but I lost that the first night we spent together. The little masochist in me loves to drown in your touch now.

I hate myself for that. I wish I still had the same backbone I did when I met you, but it disappeared somewhere in the face of your charm that night.

I remember how fast my hand went to my switchblade when you pulled up behind me. You could have been some sick psychopath, some murderer or serial rapist—maybe a combination of all three. In retrospect, my caution was warranted, but at the time you were all gentleman.

Was I all right? Was that my jeep a couple miles back? Did I want a ride to the nearest gas station?

You sold yourself to me all charm and chivalry, a horrible combination for a damsel in distress. I threatened to restructure your face with my switchblade if you so much as laid a hand on me, so you laid a can of gas at my feet instead.

I still hate you for that. I discovered later, after you had driven away, the words written on the side: 'Return to Sender,' followed by your name and address.

Request granted. Go laugh in Hell.

The flame finally steadies. The lighter is what shakes, courtesy of my grip and the goddamned adrenaline in my blood. I have a second of rational thought to pull your body off the jeep hood before I do this. You beat me to the idea.

I feel your weight slam into me and we both tumble to the ground. My head hits something hard—the road—and all my senses go numb. The paralysis lasts only a few seconds, but you only need that: you have us flipped over, my stomach to the road and your stomach to my back, before I can move.

I thrash in your grip. I hate your touch. You know that and grip me tighter, spitting in the face of my defiance.

I want you dead. I thrash so furiously that my vision spins—or your hand on my throat just cuts off that much air. You still overpower me. You always overpower me. I can feel your ribs against my back, jostling with my struggles, jabbing into my skin.

I got you that good, did I? I want to hurt you more, but you outpace me: you grab my arm and wrench it so far up my back that it almost dislocates my shoulder. I snarl and swear in every language I know.

You just laugh and pull my head back by my hair. I hate the way it chokes me. I hate the way it lets you kiss me. But my hatred has never done anything than excite you; it was and is your greatest pleasure, and even now you waste your last moments earning it.

I feel your grip tighten and brace myself. You slam my head down onto the road so hard I see stars—red ones. I realize afterward what those stars really are, but my mouth and nose are so full of the blood it barely matters.

Once I really wreck you, I want you to tell me how good I look as your dying breath. You always said you liked me better covered in blood—well, I like it, too. I want to see your preference stand when the color I painted myself in is yours.

I throw my elbow back into your chest, intent on breaking whatever the grill of my jeep missed. You scream. It should be music to my ears, but you deny me even that; your screaming is the sound of a wild beast breaking its last tethers of humanity, and I know those teeth and claws are coming for me.

I go for my switchblade to kill that beast in its cradle, but you know me too well. The wrestling match that follows ends up with me somehow on my back and you straddling my hips instead.

That switchblade does make an entrance, though—just at my throat instead of yours.

I glare up at you, daring to breathe only enough to keep from passing out. You have the blade pressed so goddamned close to my neck it could take my pulse. I have the lighter pressed up against your throat, too; the cap is off and my thumb is on the igniter, waiting.