Breathe

by N. M. Catalano

  Walking to the mirror resting on top of the dresser in another dive motel, my eyes meet the reflection.

  Lovely. Just lovely.

  I'm going to need to pile on the foundation to cover up the huge purple bruise on my cheek. At least I'll be color coordinated, I laugh.

  Another man who thought he could take me down.

  Wrong again.

  LAST NIGHT

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  I parked my car under a street light, something I never do. I wanted to be visible, I wanted people to see me, just in case something went wrong. From the minute I got the call to arrange this transaction, every instinct inside me told me to say no.

  I couldn’t. The money was too good.

  I keep reminding myself of that as I knock on the hotel room door. It should be called a shit box because that’s what it is.

  “Yeah, come in,” a man yells from the other side.

  I push the door open and enter holding the bag with his order.

  “Well, goddamn, I didn’t know the motel sends up complimentary hookers. Come in, baby,” he grabs his junk, “I could use a good blow job.” He snickers.

  Fucking asshole!

  “Keep that shit in your pants. You’re Deuce, right?” “

  He opens his arms wide, “In the flesh,” he laughs.

  “I’m here for the deal.” I slam the door behind me and stay right the fuck where I’m at.

  I’m nervous, I never get nervous. Something is not right.

  “Feisty bitch. I like my pussy wild,” he sneers.

  I draw in a deep breath. Keep your cool Raven, don’t let him push you.

  “Can we just get down to business? Two kilos,” I hold up the bag, “just like you asked for. And if you like it, then we can do the rest.”

  “Alright, business it is then,” he gives me a yellowed crooked smile and approaches me.

  If I weren’t already standing with my back practically smack against the door, I’d back up. There’s nowhere for me to go from here but out.

  He steps over to the bed and pats it. “Well bring it over, what the hell are you waiting for?”

  I remind myself of how much money is involved, so I don’t rip his throat out. I cautiously approach him while taking note of any nearby weapons, if any. I don’t see a gun or a blade, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any in the room.

  I set the bag on the bed and move to open it. His hand lands on top of mine and squeezes. Hard.

  “Tsk, tsk, little lady. I’ll get that. You might be a fine piece of ass, but I’m not stupid. Keep your hands where I can see them,” he grips my hand so tightly, it feels like he’s going to crush the bones.

  I don’t move. “If you touch me again,” I hiss, “it’ll be the last thing you do.”

  He throws his head back and laughs.

  The filthy prick!

  “I like you, Raven.” Then he narrows his eyes at me with a disgusting grin on his ugly face. “We are going to get along just fine.”

  An old familiar feeling of revulsion turns my stomach. I snatch my hand from beneath his and take a step back.

  Chuckling, Deuce’s attention goes back to the bag containing the drugs I brought him.

  “This is real pretty,” he murmurs. “You and I are going to get along just, just fine.”

  God, he’s disgusting.

  Zipping up the bag, he snatches it from the bed and puts it in the closet. By now, every damn alarm bell I have is screaming inside me. I’m still standing at the same spot at the end of the bed, my body rigid and ready for anything this pig might throw at me.

  “Glad you like it. Now if we can finish this, I’ll arrange for the balance,” I tell him tightly.

  “Sure, sure,” he approaches me slowly as he runs a hand through his long, greasy hair. “You did good, Raven.” He’s right in front of me now. “It’s time to close the deal.”

  Deuce turns on me and grips me by the neck, his fingers dig into my throat and clutch my trachea like a fucking vice grip. He starts thrashing me back and forth. He may not be tall, but he’s strong as a son-of-a-bitch!

  FUCK.

  “This is how it’s going to go, whore,” he spits in my face. “You’re going to leave the drugs. You’re going to suck my dick; I’m going to fuck the hell out of you. Then you’re going to bring me the rest of what I want.” He grips my throat tighter. “Got that?”

  I can’t say anything.

  Instinctively, my hands fly up to his hands and arms and claw at him. I press my nails deep into his skin. I hope I rip it from his bones. I can’t breathe and it hurts so damn bad. If I don’t do something quick, I’m going to pass out. This vile piece of shit would probably fuck me even if I was dead.

  “That’s it, fight me,” he laughs psychotically. He backs me up to the wall and slams me against it. The impact shoves his fingers deeper into my throat, they pierce me like five daggers and make my eyes water.

  “Fucking tears. I love them,” he sneers, and licks them off my face.

  Blinding rage explodes inside me.

  I’m unable reach the blade or the gun stashed in my boots. But I can do this. I knee him as fucking hard as I can in his nuts, so hard, my leg throbs.

  “GODDAMN IT!” he roars as he let’s go, back hands me across the face, then he drops to the floor.

  My head is reeling from the blow and the lack of oxygen, my throat throbs and aches from his grip. But he’s down and I’m not losing this opportunity. I shuffle over to him as he writhes on the floor in pain clutching his junk.

  I rasp out, “Fuck you,” and smash his head into the floor over and over again. When his eyes roll to the back of his head, I elbow him as hard as I fucking can in the temple. His eyes shut.

  “The answer is no,” I pant out over his unmoving body.

  I should carve out his filthy heart, it’s exactly what he deserves. But I don’t, I don’t need a motorcycle gang hunting me down. I don’t need them to drag me back so that this scumbag could finish what he started.

  I rifle through his pants pockets. Fuck him! The degenerate’s only got thirty-seven dollars on him. Going to the closet, I reach for the bag with the drugs. “Sorry, that’s not enough,” I mumble. When I lift it, I see another bag. I quickly open it to see if it has anything worth taking. “Well, holy shit!”

  What the hell is an asshole like that doing with something like this?

  I look at the pile of breathing trash on the floor. Something tells me he’s not supposed to have this. I’d bet everything this little package is worth he stole this and he was going take my drugs too.

  I take it with me. It might just come in handy.

  I wonder how long it took him to pull his balls out after I rammed them so far up inside him with my knee, they probably needed to be surgically removed. He deserved it, the asshole. My eyes dip down to glance at the bruising around my neck where he'd been choking me. I sigh. Shit. He's lucky I didn't gut him and wear his entrails around my neck as a medal of conquest. My attention focuses on the task at hand again, making myself presentable, at least enough so I don't make small children scream.

  A mask, it's all just a mask. Isn't it? When did everything all start to blur together? Me and the person I'm supposed to be? The job and my life? Right and wrong? It's always been this way for as long as I can remember. Shit circumstances in a shit life. Once upon a time I know I'd had a dream, a little girls dream, of becoming a ballerina, a princess. A woman with someone to love her. Bullshit. It's all bullshit. It doesn't change the fact if I allowed myself to feel, the pain would still hurt the same as the day I'd realized that girls like me don't get dreams like that fulfilled. I will never permit myself to forget the day I learned that lesson, the day I realized that life only fucks girls like me. Unless I fuck it first. It took me some time, and many, many hard earned lessons, until I finally got it right. No one gets me first. No one. Raven Winters will fuck you hard, dry, and painfully, and you will never forget it.

>   I wince as I dab on the concealer. I should be used to this. It's all in a day’s work.

  But I feel it only because I permit myself to feel it, to experience some kind of sensation, anything, a sick reminder of pain, of life, of reality. Of truth. I open the door inside of me and let it slip out like a snake, the pain, the sensation of feeling, slithering over me, within me, through me, touching all of my nerve endings. The shock of it is like electricity surging through all of my nerve endings. It hurts so good I almost moan. I relish it, savor it, embrace it, then I rip it from me and shove it back inside the deep dark pit inside of me I created long ago and let the numbness wash over me again.

  Stay focused. There’s not time for indulgences.

  This routine is done on auto-pilot, the creation of my persona, I've done it a million times. Covering the bruises, concealing the scars, hiding the milestones of my life that cover me from head to foot. And highlighting my best assets, the tools of my trade, my eyes, my lips, my breasts and legs. At least the road map on my head is hidden by my long, straight, black hair. Those winding curves on my skull are just a loop, repeating over and over again. It's always the same thing, it might be different names and faces, places and situations, but it really is all just the same.

  The ink adorning my body highlights each of the many badges I wear proudly, telling their own stories. Each one is a testament to my victories, some battles I've lost, I've got the scars to show, but I've won every war. But there were two where the prize was almost worth the pain.

  But I’ve got to get out of here. I’m surprised no one’s come to pay me a visit after last night. He deserved what I did to him, he should have gotten much more. But they won’t listen to me. I’m just some fucked up chick with a death wish and a mission. It doesn’t matter what they do, they always get away with it. It’s always been that way. Me, I’m the one that cleans up the mess, takes out the trash, the wild card they never expect to come. But I always do, and I always get what I’m after. So much so, it’s become a bit routine and boring.

  Maybe that’s why I took the douchebags merchandise. I couldn’t resist it; it was just too tempting. I know he’ll get heat, not just because I kicked his ass, but for losing it. It’s worth a fortune, not that I can do anything with it. If even a hint got out on the street that I had it, there wouldn’t be anywhere I could hide. Taking it probably signed my death warrant, but screw it, I did it because he practically let me. It's leverage, and you never pass that up. It’s the Holy Grail.

  Throwing the eyeliner in my makeup pouch, I take out the lipstick and swipe a swath of cotton candy pink across my full lips. Yeah, it’s girly, fuck you. I might be a crazy bitch, but I'm still all woman. I smack my lips together as I assess the damage control I’ve done to my face and give it the green light. Good enough. The bruise is still slightly visible; the swelling is something I can’t do anything about. I turn my head to get a look at my face at different angles. I kind of like the look. The residuals left over from last night’s ‘encounter’ gives me an air of ‘Don’t fuck with me, you won’t like it.’ It’s true. I’ve left a trail since I figured out how to deal with those who’ve fucked with me.

  After last night, there will be more.

  Shoving the makeup, hairbrush, straightening iron and all the other crap from on top of the dresser into the military duffel bag I confiscated somewhere along the way, I go to the bathroom and gather the rest of my things and pack them as well. Then I empty out the closet, there’s nothing in the drawers because the thought of putting my personal items where slime-balls and degenerates might have had their cum covered things, and God only knows what else, completely grossed me out. I’m pretty sure they rent the rooms out by the hour in this seedy place. This dive was perfect for me with the traffic coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I could hide here in plain sight. No one who might look for me would step foot in this cesspool. After taking another glance around to make sure I haven’t left anything, I pick up the razor sharp blade from the dresser and slide it into a hidden pocket inside one boot, then I slip the small revolver into the other. That’s everything. I packed the assholes merchandise last night, it’s nestled beneath my clothes in the bag. I sling the duffel strap over my shoulder, then my purse. I grab my cell phone and shut the door behind me as I leave.

  In the hallway there’s a tall-boy can of Milwaukee’s Best on its side, the brown paper bag I’m sure it was covered with is two doors down. At the end of the hallway by the fire exit, (it’s illuminated light was more than likely smashed years ago), the place I have no doubt the smell of old, stale urine is coming from, I think I see a trampled hypodermic needle on the decades old ratty carpet. There’s a cacophony of sounds coming through the thin walls of the rooms lining the hallway, Spanish accents, hood lingo, strings of curse words that’s probably being shouted at a prostitute telling her to suck a cock and make her trick hard.

  “What a total shit hole,” I murmur.

  Just as I turn to head down the other way, the door to the room next to mine swings open. Instantly I’m alert and ready to pull the blade from its sheath inside my boot.

  The male face staring back at me has glassy eyes and shrunken facial features above a rail-thin frame. Junky.

  “Hey baby,” he cracks a sleazy grin at me with a mouth full of rotten teeth.

  Ignoring him, I circle around him to walk away.

  Latching on to my arm with his filthy hand, he slurs, “Where ya goin’? Let’s get high and I’ll show you a real good time.” He moves his hips toward me as if he were going to grind against me.

  The smell coming off of this walking corpse makes me want to gag.

  Before the zombie can blink, I wrap my hand around his wrist, spin him around and have him smashed against the door on the tips of his toes, his arm twisted to the point of breaking. He’s screaming and is probably about to piss himself.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t cut your fucking hand off; your dick is already useless. Shut up and stop screaming like a little bitch,” I tell him quietly.

  “You’re fucking insane,” he whimpers.

  No one’s come out of the cocoons of their own little versions of hell. No one will. I could slice the skin off this piece of shit and nobody would even know it. Not until his rotten flesh started stinking, and maybe not even then.

  “That’s not the point here,” I yank his arm a little higher. He screams with a pitch high enough to break glass. “I told you to be quiet,” I seethe. He whimpers, his body shaking now. “Very good. Now listen carefully. If you ever touch a woman again that hasn’t given you permission, I WILL come back and finish this. Do we understand each other?” Another yank on the bone clasped in my grip.

  “Yeah, yeah, fucking YEAH, just let me go!”

  “Excellent. Now that we understand each other, get back in your room and don’t come out,” I shove him back inside by his arm and slam the door behind him, his crying still heard through the thin door.

  “Piece of shit. Now I have to sanitize my hands again.”

  As I walk down the hallway, I take out the mini bottle of sanitizer from my purse and slather it on my hands and up and down my arms.

  “I hate it when people touch me.”

  I’m walking into the tiny lobby as I return the sanitizer and approach the desk. I don’t bother to say anything as I place the room key on the counter. The old man who checked me in comes out from the back room behind the two-way mirror wearing what must be his uniform, an old, worn, short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt with just as worn out khakis.

  “Leaving Mrs. Smith?” he asks as he slides the key toward him wearing the smile he’d given me when I checked in with that name.

  The man’s not stupid. He knows that’s not my name

  I feel sorry for him. I’m sure this isn’t the life he’d planned when he married his childhood sweetheart. He’s got a kind face and he probably had a twinkle in his eye before the world threw all of its shit at him and beat him down.
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  Welcome to reality.

  “Yes.” I try to smile at him, I really do. But I’m not sure I know how to give someone a genuine one without it looking like a snarl.

  “Well, I have to say I’m sorry to see you go. You’ve been a ray of sunshine here,” he gives me a little chuckle. That’s got to be one of the most pathetically sincere things I’ve ever heard. “That’s something this place hasn’t seen in a very long time.”

  If I still had a conscience and some semblance of compassion, I might have been touched by his words. But I don't.

  The old man has done the impossible, he’s made me consider that not all people are filth.

  “Thank you,” I choke out.

  I don’t know what to say. What do you say to someone who’s said something kind? I don’t fucking know. I don’t know what kindness is, I never have. What do you do with that?

  “You take care of yourself, Mrs. Smith. Be careful, the world can be very unfriendly with someone like you.”

  Just what the hell?

  The tapping on my stone heart is now a jack hammer.

  “You come back and see me if you’re ever in town again. We’ll have some coffee together. Maybe you’ll listen to an old man,” his sad little laugh is one of the most beautifully tragic sounds I’ve ever heard.

  My throat is swollen, my words are like shards of glass as I push them out, scraping deep gashes as they fight their way free. “I will, I promise.”

  If I were normal, and if this place wasn't the cesspool it is, this whole thing would be touching. And I'd hug him. But I'm not, and it is, so I don't.

  “Now you go on,” he says as he pulls himself to his stunted full height.

  What I say next shocks the shit out of me.

  “I’ll try.” It’s the truth.

  That sparkle is back and it’s shining like light reflecting off two big diamonds in his eyes.

  “Do an old man a favor and go out the back door. The scenery is much better that way,” he points his thumb in the direction of a door to the left.

  Everything else shuts down inside me except my fight instinct.