Jim Gore

21 December 20XX

Convenience Store

PLAY MESSAGES

I texted her. “’My dear?’ What the hell’s that?”

“Just for fun lol,” she said. “Just teasing.”

“You sure it’s cool?”

“Yeah why?”

“Idk just don’t want shit to go sideways.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“Alright do it.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Good luck.” And then she left me on read. There was nothing else to say. She made up her mind, I encouraged it, hell, I laughed about it. The bastard’s gonna get what’s coming. It feels conflicting. It feels like revenge, which feels right, but it also feels dangerous, stupid, and exciting.

I wasn’t a bystander. Whatever happens next is tangentially my fault. It’s a fucked up life. You need thick skin to get around. It’s due to people like Shingo; you see it also with Duane. I feel especially bad for Chickarrin, but no, I won’t call her that anymore.

Miranda, fucking Miranda.

I went to her house once to trade DVDs. There was rotten shit and insects all over the kitchen floor. And in her room, there were dull knives, porn bootlegs, and crusty, brown gauze scattered all over her dresser. Nobody else was home. I never went back; I never asked for my tapes back, and she never asked for hers.

I see dark spots where Duane puts his arms. She looks like a mannequin without spray-tan. She’s so pale, and she smiles like a beaten animal.