White Pawn

by Stevie J. Cole

  Fate put her here. She’s our fifth business. So, I drag her from the entrance to the kitchen. I grab the sleeping pills from my purse, dump about 10 out in my palm, and stick the first one in her mouth. But she’s unconscious. I try blowing in her face. Nothing. Panic sets in. My “don’t-let-him-think-your-crazy” instincts go into overdrive. I pull her panties down her legs, roll her on her side, push her knees to her chest, and cram the pills up her asshole. It should hit her more quickly this route anyway.

  I wash my hands and make my way back into the living room. Justin’s still out like a light on his couch. I grab his arms and tug. He falls to the floor with a thud. Groaning, I drag Justin’s limp body into the kitchen with #HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy. Sweat drips down my face, my chest. Really, this entire situation is annoying as fuck. It takes all my strength to prop him up against the white cabinets. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you know?” I tell him, even though he’s skipping through La La Land right about now. I really am sad that it’s come to this, I think as I dig the packet of dish gloves out from underneath the sink.

  “She screamed when I clocked her over the head with your Macbook, babe,” I tell Justin as I secure the latex glove with a pop. “I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t prepared for this.” Leaning over, I sigh and brush my gloved fingers through his hair.

  I grab the butcher knife—cliché. I know, I know. You hate cliché climaxes. Predictable endings. I take my arm and swipe everything from the counter. Plates and dishes crash to the ground. And now, the bad part about tonight. I walk behind Justin and place the knife on the floor, then I bend over, looping my arms underneath his.

  “Mmm,” he groans.

  “Shhh. It’s okay.”

  My back strains as I move him closer to Amy, resting much of his weight over my chest. “You know,” I say, “writing the sick shit we do is bound to get to you at some point, make you lose touch with reality.”

  I place the knife in his hand, holding it sweetly in mine. I close my eyes when I lift his arm back and swing at her. The noise is terrible, something comparable to a soggy washcloth being dropped onto concrete, and I think I’m going to be sick. Amy attempts to scream, but is so far gone from the pills that it sounds more like a kitten’s cry. I take a few deep breaths before I make him plunge the knife into her chest again and again. Overkill really, Justin, but you are a passionate man. You fuck like an animal and kill like one, so it seems. My heart pounds. My head spins. And just when I think I’m done, I realize she would have fought him off. I have to drag the blade across his arm a few times and scratch his face up if I’m going to make this believable. Tears seep from my lash line. I feel like a horrible person right now. “All I want is the perfect story,” I whisper in his ear before I kiss his cheek. He groans like that’s all he wants too.

  I stand and step back, my pulse racing, my mind a jumbled mess. And I’m not going to lie, as I look down at my bloody hands, I get a little angry at him. He made me do this. He made me murder her because he just couldn’t play fair. He tried to play with more than one queen, he tried to have more than one plot. And honestly, love triangles have no place in romance! I read that in a review once, and I have to agree right about now. Sighing, I go to the bathroom to wash up and change into the clothes I slept in last night.

  I leave, chucking my clothes and those nasty gloves into the dumpster behind the Fish Hut on my way home. The garbage picks up in exactly 34 minutes and we can’t have any plot holes in this storyline. This is not how I wanted this to go, but shit doesn’t always go the way you plan. Any good author knows that.

  Chapter Forty

  Justin

  “Stressed Out”- Leo

  Cobain whimpers. His tongue over my face drags me from my sleep. Ah, fuck! My head is pounding. My body is stiff as shit. I roll over and my palm lands on something sticky and cold. Wet. “Fuck, Cobain,” I grumble. “Did you piss on the... ” I blink my eyes open to the pitch black, but I can feel the cold kitchen tile underneath me. Why the fuck am I on the floor? I push up to my hands and knees, and my palms slip over the slick floor. “Shit.”

  I stumble to my feet, my socks growing damp with whatever the hell it is that’s been spilt. I feel around on the wall for the light switch, my memory so foggy I can’t recall how I ended up in this room. Finally, my fingers brush the tiny switch and I flip it. My heart sledgehammers against my ribs. Red streaks and handprints cover the wall. Shit’s broken. My stomach kinks and knots, coiling like a serpent around helpless prey. My hands tremble. My breath is unsteady as I slowly turn around. I want to scream when I see a girl lying in my floor, eyes wide and glassy. Cobain is standing between the kitchen and living room just staring. He won’t go near her.

  Amy? Why is Amy here? Covered in blood! I look at the door, the window. Nothing’s broken. I try to recall anything, something, but my mind is in a complete gridlock, the wheels not turning. All I can see is Amy. Dead. In my kitchen. I grab onto the wall, the room spinning. I glance down to find my arm covered in tiny cuts and scratches. I stagger sideways a few steps. My back hits the wall. And then, the foggiest of memories bubbles to the surface. It’s distorted and jumbled, but it’s of a knife gripped in my hand.

  Covering my mouth, I slink along the wall, shaking my head. “No. No. No.” I squeeze my eyes shit.

  “Wake the fuck up,” I say. “Wake up.” Because this must be a dream—a nightmare. That book I’m writing, it’s wiggled its way into my thoughts, my dreams and I’m dreaming this shit. My nostrils flare when I inhale. “Wake up... ” And then Cobain whimpers. His warm, slick tongue sweeps over my fingertips. I open my eyes. She’s still there. My stomach bubbles and churns. I take off running down the hallway to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I vomit. Sweat leaks from every pore. My stomach heaves. When I think I’m well enough to sit up, I see my bloodstained hands gripping the sides of the porcelain. Messy fingerprints and smears all over the rim. I hurl again. And then, I just lay my head on the seat of the toilet and cry. I’m afraid my mind’s fucked up. I finally went too dark, and perhaps, I’ve gone mad.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Marisa

  “Hold Me Down”- Halsey

  Adele is playing on the radio. The sun is shining. The birds are singing—in Central Park, I’m sure. And I’m soaking in a bubble bath. A nice relaxing bubble bath while reading, What to Expect When Expecting. I set the book on the edge of the tub and place my palm over my stomach. I hope it’s a girl. Justin would look so adorable toting around a pink diaper bag with little daisies printed all over it.

  I glance at my phone. 8:32 AM. It was a gamble just leaving him like that, but, as I’ve said a thousand times, he must be taught a lesson. I thought if I played hard to get, that would work. It didn’t. I played him, showed him that even the best of players can become someone else’s toy... but that wasn’t exactly enough. I got pregnant for Christ’s sake. The thing is, while Justin Wild may be a player, he’s only ever played with fans. I’m not a player. I’m not a fan. I’m the motherfucking game. I call the fouls and if one thing fails, I’ll try another and another until something works, because love is worth it all.

  I start to text him, but stop myself. An alibi must be perfect. Calculated. I climb out of the tub, dry myself off, and throw on some clothes. No time for makeup, so I rub some shimmering moisturizer on and scurry out of my apartment. I hurry down the road to the coffee shop, grab a Caramel Macchiato and Vanilla Latte, and high-tail it to 212 Water Street. I type in the code: 24456—I’ve paid close attention to him when he types it in, singing it in my head like a little jingle for gum—and the doors click. I text him on my way up the metal stairwell, the sound of my Chuck Taylors running up the steps echoing from the walls.

  Caramel Macchiato? Right.

  Then a few seconds later: Wake up, sleepy head. And then... I ring his doorbell. I pound over the door and some of his coffee splashes out, scalding my hand. “Justin? Babe?” My heartbeat steadily picks up. My p
alms grow slick with sweat. Shit. And panic burrows through me like a botfly anchoring itself with its tiny hooks. “Justin? Open the door.” Wham. Wham. Wham.

  I hear footsteps. A cough. Cobain barks. “I’m sick, Marisa. Go away.”

  “Justin—”

  “Go. Away.” I can hear the stress in his voice, the worry. I can only imagine how upsetting it must have been for him to wake up with little recollection of how his fuckbag-of-fun ended up dead on his floor. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I just left him to handle that on his own?

  Sighing, I twist the handle. The door swings open and Justin’s standing at the back of his hall—his hall covered in bloody footprints. He’s wide-eyed with wonder. Cobain comes trotting up, his tail wagging. I step inside and close the door before patting Cobain on the head.

  “How the... ” Justin’s brow scrunches. He looks pitiful. Dark purple circles sit below his bloodshot eyes. His hair is messy where he’s most likely been dragging his hands through it. Scratches cover his face. The sight of them tugging on my heart. “How did you get in?” he asks.

  I know he’s in no condition to rationalize a thing. “Babe... your door was unlocked.” Cobain walks down the hall.

  “I... it was?” He nods. “It was.” He stands here, in a daze, just shaking his head as Cobain licks his fingers. “I’ve... ” He raises his hand to drag it over his face and I notice his knuckles, cut and scratched, raw, probably from how often he’s washed his hands this morning trying to get the feel of her blood off.

  I slip my keys back inside my pocket before I glance over to the kitchen. Blood is everywhere. Handprints are smeared down the wall. He hasn’t cleaned up a thing. Fuck’s sake. How lazy is he? Jesus.

  “I uh... I uh, I... ” And he paces. Back and forth and back and forth, the floorboards creaking under his weight and Cobain trailing behind him like a sad little shadow with his tail tucked.

  I stare at Amy’s feet sticking out from the corner of the cabinets, at the dark blood pooled on the floor, settled in the grout. “Justin... ” I slowly glance back at him. His eyes well with tears, and, this is it. This is the moment where he breaks. Where he realizes I will be there for him when all of those other little fucktwats won’t. When he realizes I am his confident. His other half. When he realizes he is no longer a player in this game, but a pawn, a mere character I will bend to my whim to make the story right. “I think I’ve done something really bad,” he mumbles and gestures toward the kitchen.

  Inhaling, I steel myself. “It’s fine. It’s fine. We just have to clean it up.” I nod and head into the kitchen, carefully stepping over the puddle of blood.

  “Clean it up?” Justin comes walking around the corner. “Clean it up?” he says again. I yank the pantry door open and grab a mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies.

  “Yes, Justin. Clean it up. What else are we supposed to do? Just leave it here?”

  “I... ” Enough with the babbling and stumbling over your words already. Fuck!

  “Look, I don’t want to know,” I say. “I don’t need to know, I just want this gone.”

  “Why are you doing this?” He steps closer to me. “Marisa, I... ” He stares off into the nothing. His chest rising in ragged, uneven swells. He takes another step until he’s right in front of me. His beautiful blue eyes are drowning in tears and he slowly, tenderly lays his head on my shoulder. The saddest, most desperate sob breaks from his lips, rustling against my ear. “I don’t want to be this person.”

  “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I scratch my fingers through his hair to comfort him. After all, there is a formula to love, you see. People bond during traumatic events, and here we are, Justin. Here. We. Are.

  “There was so much blood. And she just looked—” His words are lost on a deep cry. And all I can do is hold him. Comfort him. Because how many of his fuckbuddies have held him when he cried? I know none of them have coddled him through something like this. None of them have had his baby in their stomach, growing and feeding.

  I pull back and take his face in both my hands, forcing him to look at me. “We all make mistakes.” I swallow, my heart clips and clops proudly like a Clydesdale.

  “I don’t even remember inviting her over, but I did. It was right there on my phone. I texted her and asked her over. I shouldn’t have.” His chin drops to his chest and he shakes his head, “I just... ”

  See? Now you are starting to see, Justin. “Look at me,” I say as I sweep my hands down his rugged jaw, over the stubble. I stare into his eyes. “I love you. Love conquers all, right?” I feel my cheeks blush. My chest swells and his eyes go soft like putty. Like pliable, moldable putty.

  My chest grows tight with sadness and happiness and a sick and twisted euphoria, so I kiss him, and for a moment, he hesitates. He jerks back, but the second my tongue brushes his lips, he caves for me. His hands go to my hair, pulling and tugging in true Justin fashion. And he’s crying, holding onto me and that fucking electricity that no one else will ever have. I think this little arrangement will change everything. For me. For him. For us.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Justin

  “Under Your Skin”- Aesthetic Perfection

  Hours. It’s been hours that we’ve been cleaning. Marisa threw a bedsheet over Amy’s body, and that’s helped. Bucket after bucket, we’ve scrubbed and scoured my kitchen. Marisa pushes up from her knees and wipes the sweat from her forehead before glancing back at the sheet. “Shit, okay,” she says. “We’ve got to get her in the tub.”

  “What?”

  “In the tub. We need to put her in the tub. Unless you want a mess all over the kitchen again.”

  “But why—”

  “Well, Justin, what do you suggest we do with the body, huh? I mean, you live in the middle of fucking Manhattan. You think you can just go toting a corpse out through the front door, toss it in the dumpster by the Fish Hut?”

  I glance at the sheet stained with blood, and I want to hurl again. I feel my insides shake and churn, panic ripples through me, slow at first, but then it turns into a full-on tsunami that has me grabbing for the wall to anchor myself. That is not a dead body under that sheet. I did not kill Amy. I’m not that kind of person. Sure, I write some godawful stuff. Blood and guts, kidnappings, but I’m not those people I write in my books. I’m not. I mean, there have been times I worry that I get too into character, too obsessed with understanding their psyche, their drive, but that’s all part of the art. I’m not a character in a King novel. I’m not one of those lunatic authors that’s so out of touch with reality that I just black out and slaughter someone—and then I glance at that sheet again, and an unmoving, concrete lump forms in my throat. I find myself backed against the wall, unable to pull my gaze away from that bumpy sheet, and I slide down to the floor, bending my knees and placing my head in my hands.

  “Justin, I’m sorry, I just... this is a mess and it’s freaking me out and now I’m involved because I love you, I do, but we have to do something. Quickly.”

  I lift my head and stare at Marisa. At beautiful, sweet Marisa. At the woman I really don’t deserve, because what if I am crazy? Do crazy people even know that their crazy? Because if you knew you were crazy, you wouldn’t be crazy, right? It’s knowing that your crazy that makes you sane, so maybe I am insane because I don’t think I am. How else can any of this be explained? And maybe, maybe I should just turn myself in. Tell the police Marisa had nothing to do with it, that I forced her to help me clean it up when she walked into my apartment.

  “Justin?” She snaps her fingers in front of my face and I blink.

  “Huh?”

  She walks back to the kitchen and bends over, flipping the sheet back and grabbing Amy’s wrists. “Come get her legs, I can’t carry her alone.”

  I slowly stand, my legs wobbling beneath me. My heart hammers in my chest, pulsing through my temples as a thin layer of sweat slicks my skin. I stare down at Amy’s discolored toes sticking out from the edge of the sheet, and I
swallow hard. I bend over and grab her, but snatch my hands away when the second they touch her clammy skin. “Fuck,” I say between deep breaths.

  “It’s just a dead body, Justin. Come the fuck on. You can’t think about it, just... just grab her and let’s go.”

  And so, I do just that. I think about being a kid and standing at the window of the zoo, watching the monkeys swing from the little fake tree, fighting over the dried fruit the zookeeper had set out for them. I don’t know why, but that’s what I think about, and before I know it—thunk—the body lands in the tub, and I’m no longer with the monkeys. I’m back in my expensive apartment in Manhattan with a dead girl’s body in my once clean tub.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Marisa

  “Alien”- Bush

  It takes 6.5 hours to dismember a human body and flush it down a toilet. You can’t find that on Google. Justin’s face is a grayish-green and he’s slumped against the wall by the bathroom sink. He’s thrown up twice. I’ve only vomited once. I chuck the last wad of remains in the toilet and I flush, watching the grisly sludge circle the drain before it vanishes, never to be seen of again. Goodbye Amy Smith, plain-fucking-Jane. Goodbye. Ed keeps texting me about meeting up with him. Fuck you, Ed. I’m in the middle of the climax here, I don’t have time for coffee with you and your ginger hair.