"She was a huwer. A fucking bimbo slob who was headed nowhere in her life."
Ralph parked in his driveway crookedly, having nearly rear-ended and crashed head-on into fellow vehicles on the road home because of his hazy coke-induced high that sharpened but also somehow softened his vision so it affected his motor skills and judgment.
Staggering up to the front door, he lifted his shaky, blurred right hand that pinched keys up to the lock, eyeing the drying blood—her blood—stained on his skin. He snarled. The little slut was dead, brains bashed in and all, and yet she remained with him in the sense that her DNA clung to his hands and cheeks, would until he thoroughly cleansed himself in the tub, which was few minutes away.
Inside, he slammed the door and dropped his keys wherever, mind fixed on reaching the upstairs bathroom pronto. The coke still running rampant in his veins, numbing parts of his brain while intensely activating others, he made his journey up the stairs, the trip dizzy and arduous, to his dismay, as he stepped onto the second floor after God knew how long. He sloppily unbuttoned his blazer and shirt, his pants and briefs jerked down and discarded on his wobbly walk down the hall, naked by the time he grabbed and turned the tub's hot and cold faucets. Sliding his red-splashed ring off, he rinsed it under the showerhead, keen on disinfecting it later, and set it aside on the porcelain ledge. Stepping in to welcome the overhead rain, he adjusted the hot water so steam billowed off his body, surrounding him, reddening his skin. Soap was applied in rough scrubs everywhere, freeing him of her germs, her mess, her.
His nose and cheeks were sore, thanks to the Boss' explosive fit of emotion at the sight of the stripper's mangled corpse in the parking lot by bags of trash. How dare Anthony, the fat, greedy prick, lay his fat mitts on him, a made guy!
"He barely knew that cesspool of disease. He had no right." He spoke aloud again as to better convince himself he was the lesser of two evils tonight, not Anthony. Anthony was sorely mistaken to react how he did, with two slugging fists over words, however cold.
Ralph wrung shampoo into the toupee covering his naturally balding scalp, resisting caring that he wasn't supposed to get it wet. "She was nothing. A lousy, pathetic loser who had all that coming. She deserved far worse."
Cutting off the water after an unsure but lengthy number of minutes, he climbed out and sat on his toilet, cloaked in his largest towel. In that moment, she corrupted his thoughts with her image, smell, whiny voice, touch, taste even. He remembered her genuine smile at the hilarious, perhaps cruel lie that they'd buy a house together and raise the kid in it when it was born. Oh, the beautiful and young and naive but filthy and worthless girl. The uneducated fool. How she'd managed to fall for him was baffling and sad.
Her memory mocked him. Even as without remorse as he was, his nerves shuddered. Her twinkling, elated eyes in the moonlight, the cloud of cigarette smoke straggling around her would have rung perfection to any man, but her better features went downhill whenever she parted her lips, promising to say something annoying and dumb. Why couldn't she have been his silent trophy? There with a purpose just to look pleasing with a mouth that only opened for her single area of talent.
She could have been ideal, though, and he still wouldn't have loved her. As he reserved such a strong sensation as love for a slim few in his life (Ma, Justin and coke), her hope for earning that from him was futile from the moment they met. Deeply and truly loving a woman was among things he simply wasn't capable of.
She was no tragic, monumental loss; nothing to be missed. The baby she'd been carrying for a few weeks or so belonged to someone else, he figured; some john who'd never so much as give her the time of day, their brief sexual encounter all the guy wanted from her. Her toddler son who her equally disgusting slob mother raised and held custody of wouldn't cry for her but forget about her entirely. Eventually, Ralph would too, but for now she plagued every corner of his mind as he collapsed upon his bed, eyes sealed, body weak and exhausted. Many minutes ticked by and he lied motionless as could be but capturing sleep was seeming impossible. He'd beaten and murdered countless men in cold blood since his late teens and she'd been his first woman, also the first to get to him like this.
"You awful, no-good pig," he hissed into the duvet. "Leave me the fuck alone."
"You feel like a man now?" she yet again taunted, her voice lucid in his head. Any scrap of security she'd possessed abandoned her fast once those words that challenged his masculinity slipped out of her mouth, stabbing his ears. She'd asked for his fists. Must have craved them. He proved her regard for him wrong that night, leaving her unable to stand up to him, a reputable and powerful wiseguy, anytime in the future. Now she'd rot someplace underground in the woods. Insects would consume her, burrowing down into her vocal cords to eat, breed and make a home out of them. The notion inspired him to chuckle, though it was not completely out of mirth but, to his surprise, disquietude.
In the morning she'd be cleared of his conscious, he'd see. He'd wake, well-rested and sober, ready to go on about his business as usual. Tomorrow would offer renewal, the first step towards winning back his associates' respect. He clenched his fists beneath him. She'd cost him his high place in the ranks. How long would it take to reclaim it?
"Goddamn bitch. You better be scorching in hell."
Why'd he have to meddle with such trouble? A needy whore who was solely decent for screwing shouldn't have landed on his list of priorities. He may have been a made guy, sure, but Anthony was so livid, flesh burnt burgundy, crazed eyes that contained a fire, spittle spraying through his bared teeth to boot. The Bing and the DiMeo family had been shamed because of one of its representative's ill-placed vent-out fury, giving the Boss ample incentive to sentence a whack. On the other hand, Ralph was the best earner, so they'd be eliminating a valuable source they couldn't quite afford to. They'd be deep in the hole with him out of the picture. He smirked, crawling under the sheets. He was untouchable if they had any common sense.
This course of action had affected his chances at seizing the Captain's title, which he'd striven for for years. Although she was no relative or goomah of Anthony's, Anthony was revolted beyond measure to see one of his men do away with her, and for a petty reason.
"Shit." He moaned. "There that goes, right out the fuckin' window."
Feelings of regret began to surface. He should have just smacked her around a little then left her to her mopy, heartbroken devices out there. There was no need to mold her down into a battered pulp. She had to be put in her low place for mouthing off to a man of his status, of course, but what had killing her really accomplished? She wouldn't learn her lesson dead. If anything, he'd set her free.
Sleep well out of his grasp for the time being, he sat up, hunched over, gripping the edge of the mattress. He shook his head and released a hard, slow sigh. "I fucked up real good tonight."
In an attempt to go seen in Tony's eyes as alright, he'd have to muster up an apology on her behalf. Making it look non-half-assed was a guaranteed difficult move to overcome, but he'd try, putting in strain until his vessels burst, and certainly some would.
Becoming racked with emotion, he rushed to his dresser across the room where he kept a portion of his coke in the second drawer. Gathering the supplies and spreading them on his nightstand, he got on his knees and scraped an uneven line of the white, powdery substance using an old credit card. Positioning the tiny, slim straw under one nostril, he snorted up the addictive, mind-altering drug and proceeded to move about the house, high out of his mind and behaving in a way he struggled to see or understand coherently before finally passing out slumped over the dining table, where one of her bras were draped on the chair opposite him.
Naturally, he dreamt of her. Tracee haunted him for the night's duration, idly staying by when he peeled his eyes to squint around the sunlit kitchen. As it turned out, this was his penalty for snatching her fate for his hands. Swearing he could smell copper, as if her blood returned, drenching him, he shouted at the ceiling, then despite his pride, his macho, sobbed a pond into his lap.
Piece I wrote a while ago, thought I'd go ahead and upload it. Thank you for checking out, leave a thought if you'd like.