Fiction: Staying Busy, part II - Strangulation
Kurt lay on the ground, amid shattered glass from a rather cheaply made carafe that held his morning Alka-Seltzer. The gash on his forehead allowed a trail of blood to flow into his left eye, but temporary blindness was the least of his concerns as a set of hands clutched his neck, pushing downward at maximum force. Aaron straddled his torso, rage spilling from his gaze, as he yelled, "I'll kill you you motherfucker!" Exhausted from the struggle to acquire a breath, Kurt let his arms fall limply to the tile floor. In his head, he repeated the mantra, "I feel nothing, I feel nothing," and aloud he spat, "Kill me, kill me."
Seeing the vanquish in his opponent, Aaron loosened his grip and sat up. Kurt coughed, wiped some blood from the inside of his lip, and resumed gasping. After a minute in that position, Aaron rolled off of him and stood up; Kurt said, "Why didn't you do it? You had me, you little weasel. Why didn't you kill me?"
Aaron said nothing, instead walking over to the closet to get the broom and the dust pan. He solemnly swept up the glass, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from his face, flinching as he touched what would later turn out to be a massive shiner under his right eye. Kurt crawled to the foot of his bed, turning around to sit against it. He found his pack of cigarettes crushed inside his shirt pocket, plucked the least damaged one, re-shaped it to its intended form, and lit it with a match he sparked with his thumb. With the mess cleaned, Aaron said, "If that'll be all, I've got some things to do."
"Get the fuck out of here. I'm through with you."
Regarding that remark with a shake of his head, Aaron retired from Kurt's quarters. Out in the hall, the whores held their belongings to their chests. From the fund, Aaron peeled off the hundreds and handed an equal amount to each. "What's his fucking problem?" the red-head said, scowling up at Aaron, who stood a full foot taller than her 5' 6 frame. In a low voice that exemplified an equal mix of shame and disgust, Aaron said, "Nothing. He just ... he just gets like that sometimes."
"Yeah, well he's lucky I don't have Carlos come over here and kick his ass!" said the red-head, folding her take and slipping it into her bra. "There's no need for that," Aaron said. "I took care of that." With smeared mascara, the blonde said, "What happened? He was so nice last night. Then this morning, it was like ... he was acting like we -"
"Listen, it's complicated, all right?" Aaron had obviously given this speech before. Not necessarily every time Kurt had hookers over, but enough to tire of the act, and indeed to tire of the bullshit-laden excuses he had to give. "He doesn't trust many people, that's all. Don't ask me why, I've been around it for so long now and I don't even understand him half the time.
"What can I say? He's a different person in the morning."
Just then, the bedroom door opened. Kurt had exchanged his boxers and Hawaiian shirt for an open robe and a magazine. He walked past Aaron without looking at him, then stopped and mumbled to the whores, looking at them with his one clear eye, "I apologize." Then he continued down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Seeing the vanquish in his opponent, Aaron loosened his grip and sat up. Kurt coughed, wiped some blood from the inside of his lip, and resumed gasping. After a minute in that position, Aaron rolled off of him and stood up; Kurt said, "Why didn't you do it? You had me, you little weasel. Why didn't you kill me?"
Aaron said nothing, instead walking over to the closet to get the broom and the dust pan. He solemnly swept up the glass, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from his face, flinching as he touched what would later turn out to be a massive shiner under his right eye. Kurt crawled to the foot of his bed, turning around to sit against it. He found his pack of cigarettes crushed inside his shirt pocket, plucked the least damaged one, re-shaped it to its intended form, and lit it with a match he sparked with his thumb. With the mess cleaned, Aaron said, "If that'll be all, I've got some things to do."
"Get the fuck out of here. I'm through with you."
Regarding that remark with a shake of his head, Aaron retired from Kurt's quarters. Out in the hall, the whores held their belongings to their chests. From the fund, Aaron peeled off the hundreds and handed an equal amount to each. "What's his fucking problem?" the red-head said, scowling up at Aaron, who stood a full foot taller than her 5' 6 frame. In a low voice that exemplified an equal mix of shame and disgust, Aaron said, "Nothing. He just ... he just gets like that sometimes."
"Yeah, well he's lucky I don't have Carlos come over here and kick his ass!" said the red-head, folding her take and slipping it into her bra. "There's no need for that," Aaron said. "I took care of that." With smeared mascara, the blonde said, "What happened? He was so nice last night. Then this morning, it was like ... he was acting like we -"
"Listen, it's complicated, all right?" Aaron had obviously given this speech before. Not necessarily every time Kurt had hookers over, but enough to tire of the act, and indeed to tire of the bullshit-laden excuses he had to give. "He doesn't trust many people, that's all. Don't ask me why, I've been around it for so long now and I don't even understand him half the time.
"What can I say? He's a different person in the morning."
Just then, the bedroom door opened. Kurt had exchanged his boxers and Hawaiian shirt for an open robe and a magazine. He walked past Aaron without looking at him, then stopped and mumbled to the whores, looking at them with his one clear eye, "I apologize." Then he continued down the hall to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.