The difference between

promises and memory

is that we break promises

and memory breaks us.

... .. ... . .. .. .. .. .

Earlier that night

It twisted in his gut, the memory of every no, every dismissive glance, each turned ankle, each beat of a high-heeled retreat. Mac had grown to accept the odds, the disadvantages of himself. He was not outgoing; he was far from at ease socially. Even lucky nights were rarely truly lucky. But he persisted, like a good soldier, like his father had told him to do with all things, and in that persistence he had grown meaner. He heard the casual disdain in his voice when he complimented women on their bodies, their clothes; didn't care that he sounded rude, even dangerous, when he invited them home for drinks, and more recently, blatantly, sex. He was aware that his intimidating attitude caused a fair number to say no. But enough said yes. Enough were stupid, drunk or desperate enough to go with him. Fuck sweet talk. He had never gotten the hang of it. He didn't need it. As time went on his disdain had increased. He was very aware that he had, more and more often, begun to refer to women as cunts in his internal monologs. The last words these women would ever hear in their lives were from him and they were not sweet nothing's.

That night, he sat in the bar and watched the crowd and scanned his flock for targets. He felt the twisting of gut and heart, the twitching of his dick and accepted his lot in his life.

That blonde in the corner is trashed... Three of em. What, are they dykes? Too risky. Cunts in packs…fuckin' wolves.

Then the dark haired girl pushed through the heavy door into the smoke filled room. He had, of course, picked the table which allowed him to observe the door. He watched her walk in and his radar went haywire.

She must be loaded, bitch is loaded...look how dirty she is, she can barely walk...she looks terrified….and the dark hair, the similar build, the heart shaped face…

The compulsive, but scarily inviting thought surfaces in his mind.

She looks like Memphis.

He had something to do tonight after all. He slipped a cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket and stroked it thoughtfully under the table as he watched her, the pad of his calloused thumb rasped over the paper seam between the filter and the tube, the tip of his deeply ridged nail dug slightly into the seam of the tube. A strange choreography overtakes the movement, as it always did when he concentrated: over the seam, into the seam and back; over the seam, into the seam and back. Sensation begot sensation and numbed his body, focusing him inwards, a single eye looking out upon the world.

The girl flicked a lank strand of hair away from her face as bartender spoke to her. Mac couldn't hear what they were saying, but their bodies sounded like disdain and fear, condescension and shame. He smelled it. Over the seam, into the seam and back.

His breathing grew rapider, his heart pounded at her shame. Dirty girl, dirty girl, hello little dirty girl, he breathed softly to himself, imagining what it would be like fucking her from behind up against an alley wall, slick with grime and graffiti, breathing on her thin, pale neck, his hand in her hair, holding her head firmly against the bricks, the sheen of horrified saliva glinting on her teeth under the streetlights. Oh yes, little dirty girl.

Over the seam, into the seam and back. The moment stretched out as he pictured the rictus of her face as he ejaculated in her ass, feeling her heartbeat flutter through her body, an undulation of a pulse, one after the other, rising and falling rapidly, her torn flesh like clutching fingers that have forgotten how to let go. She releases when the blood cascades from her jugular.

Without any conscious effort on his part, his dick started to get hard. Two years ago, this thought would probably have caused him to look hastily away, remonstrating himself for ruminating on Memphis and how she'd left. He'd chastise himself for wasting time thinking about the cold, disloyal bitch. But since the first time he killed her, he had learned how to handle the memories. Now, it's as if by knowing how to destroy her recollection every time it tried to invade his head, he had found his first nature. He could destroy her again and again while still keeping her safe like her father Mitchum Colter had asked him to. Like Mitchum did, himself, for all of those years. "She's yours now, boy." Mac heard the man's voice as clearly today as he did that night when it all fell apart. "I'm giving her to you. So keep your promise."

The girl, only half-paying attention, seemed to feel someone watching her, and slowly glanced around the room, meeting his eyes. Electricity travels rapid fire through him. She was aware of him. Then his phone rang. He broke eye contact. Shit. The cigarette under the table snapped at the filter under the sudden pressure of his thumb, and he cursed Walter for being such a demanding prick with orders. He considered not answering, but the mood was ruined so he did without looking at the number. "Yeah?" He practically growled.

The voice on the other end stopped his erection from wilting.

"Mac? It's me."

Even though he recognized the shaky voice, he had to be an asshole. 'Who's me?"

There was a pause, "Me, Memphis. I need a favor. I'm at the Hanksville police station. Can you pick me up?"

Of course, he knew she was back. He'd been watching her but keeping his distance. The fact that she was home wasn't quelling Mac's urges, in fact, it was increasing them. He spotted her leaving the convenience store just that morning, and now here he was hunting at this pick-up spot. Cause and effect. He wasn't sure how he'd handle being around her. Mac believed he'd hold that abandonment against Memphis forever. It seemed like another lifetime when he had someone to share his secrets, take his side. She had called him her co-conspirator, her partner in crime. Mac had tried to hold on to those childhood years, but the second time she left, of her own free will, he didn't want to remember. He wanted to obliterate their past.

Spending time with her would either lead to something very wrong between them or simply cause him unremitting daily torture to watch her without being able to touch her. He'd promised her father after all.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. .. .

"Who are you here for?" The bored deputy asked.

"Memphis Colter.'

The officer pulled up her report. "Eighty dollars. Cash." He announced, without looking up.

Mac fished the bills from his pocket and threw her bail. He paced the lobby and was about to sit when a cop led her through the door to the front of the station. Mac swallowed hard taking in her appearance up close for the first time in three years and realized his substitutes had not been doing her justice. Her eyes, wide and searching fell on his face. She closed the space between them rapidly and threw her arms around his neck. He stiffened, which didn't surprise her, but he let her hang on him for a full thirty seconds before pulling her arms off of his shoulders and pushing her outside, which did.

Tap tap tap. Immediately after pulling out of the parking lot she began tapping her boot on the floorboard of the truck nervously.

... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. . .. .. .. .

Mac parked next to the small run-down house he had moved into after high school. Mac's father Walter owned not only Caineville's bar the Luna Mesa and the motel beside it, but also all the rental properties in town. This particular abode hadn't had a tenant in years so he allowed Mac to take it over. The inside was a bit messier than Memphis last remembered. More clutter decorated the worn furniture. The place was still sparsely furnished and had a utilitarian feel. She had pushed a pair of his oil stained coveralls aside on the couch before she sat. Mac absent-mindedly grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. When he filled hers and handed it to her, she hesitated. Drinking got her in trouble; she lost her boundaries. "Getting me drunk, huh?" she asked. "This must be bad."

Mac shook his head as if he was waking from a dream. "You don't want it?"

"No, I do." Tonight she didn't care. She didn't need to worry about boundaries; she was safe, she was with Mac. He sat across from her in an armchair. She watched his throat stretch taut as he threw his head back and downed a shot. His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything important tonight when I called, I mean." She tried to start a conversation.

"You did."

"Sorry. Like a date or something?" Memphis smirked and let out a small giggle.

"Yeah, actually. " He said thickly.

"Oh. God...I really am sorry." Her face fell. She fully expected Mac to say no to the date thing. She wasn't sure why, it would certainly be normal, well, expected, that he'd be seeing women, having sex. He was like any man with needs. Memphis had a strange thought: she really hated those women. Those hypothetical, possibly non-existent, but probably in fact existent because, I mean, come on Mac is a good-looking guy with a job so he's probably had plenty of women. Memphis felt strange for that thought too.

"Wasn't that what you were doing tonight Mem? Out at the bar. Trying to get laid? " Mac leaned back, the distance between them now chilly. His voice was confrontational. If anything, it made Memphis realize how close he had just gotten to her, physically as much as emotionally. When she looked up at Mac again, she felt a little unsure of herself. There they were, both drinking, talking about sex, and suddenly he'd gotten this weird upper-hand. Was she actually jealous of his hook-ups? Was he jealous of hers?

"To be honest, no. I hate it. I mean, you know, sex. It sucks. At least, it does for me. Maybe there's something wrong with me, but it always...hey, this isn't too weird, is it?"

It was like all the air was sucked out of the room. Memphis was afraid she'd crossed some invisible line and ruined the night. Time seemed to slow. She saw how Mac's expression transformed, from focused and engaged, to vacant and taciturn. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but some unknown force within held her tongue. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she felt uncomfortably warm.

Mac downed what remained of his drink but made no effort to refill his glass.

"Yeah, it is weird. Let's change the subject." She concluded.

He shrugged and lit a cigarette which relaxed him and he felt strangely elated that she said she hated sex. He felt almost aroused by the thought.

"I need a job." Memphis sighed. "What are you doing now? Still at the garage?"

"Some."

"Still cooking shit for Walter?"

"Yup."

"Lane says she can get me a job where she works."

He snorted. "You? At the Sierra?"

"Just bartending or a cocktail waitress."

"Fuck that. Manny will have you onstage and naked before you finish the first hour of your," he paused and spit, before saying "cocktail waitress shift," with a sneer.

"No, I'd never dance. You know that. I… wouldn't."

"Not about what you want, it's about money for that douchebag and he'd put you where he'd get the most money out of you. I mean Christ look at you. He'd never waste that behind the bar."

Mac hadn't meant to say the last part with such strength. Memphis tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. He'd never made remarks about her physical appearance.

"Well then maybe I will. I mean hey, I'd make more money."

"You wanna be a whore? A goddamn slut no better than any the rest of them!" Mac surprised her by slamming a shot back and throwing the bottle past her head sending it shattering against the wall next to the small television set.

"Fuck, I was kidding." She blushed, pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest.

A flash of pain then anger took over his features. "Do what you want. What's it to me anyway?"

"Don't say shit like that. Not you."

"Its different now don't you fucking get it?"

"You keep saying that. What do you mean? Why does it have to be?"

"We are not kids anymore. I saved your ass tonight, did you favor. You can crash on the couch but in the morning you go." He stood. "I need a goddamned shower." He muttered and stomped heavily out of the room.

She shouted after him. "What the fuck Mac? Don't just walk away!"

The people who know you best throw the sharpest daggers. The small bit of comfort and hope she had started to experience with him tonight slipped away and she found herself alone with that familiar dread weight pressing heavily on her chest. Still she knew you don't need someone you can live with, you need the person who you can't live without.

She pulled her spiral notebook from her purse and began writing.

Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. I feel surrounded by so much nothing. All that empty space. All I can think about is the times when it was okay. When it was even kind of good. How happy I was sometimes. Mostly in the beginning.

What if I was wrong? I have to play back all those old scenes to remind myself of why I left. I hate that I need that. It makes me feel weak that I can't trust myself, that I almost need to let my father hurt me again if only through memory, so I can believe in myself and my decisions.

I hate my father. Hate him. Well, I want to. I think. I don't know. Hating takes so much energy, and all I really want is to forget. To become someone else. And it isn't enough for everyone else to see me as someone else. I need to be someone else to me. I want to undo myself and start again, really forget everything.

But mostly I want to forget the sadness, the hurt of being let down so bad. And letting everyone else down. Him down. I never want to feel that again. I want to be able to wake up in the morning and not hate the beginning of another day in my own skin.

… …. … .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .

Mac shut the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the water and glanced at the mirror while he waited for it to heat up. He looked disheveled, his hair sticking up crazy in places and he was in need of a shave. Jesus Christ, why the hell does she want to stay here. I look like a fucking serial killer. I am a fucking serial killer.

Mac felt his face flush with warmth. His chest got tight and his stomach felt sick. He hadn't seen her as a woman in a while. And she was beautiful. Beautiful was not a word Mac often used, if ever. She was...perfect. Mac felt the front of his pants tightening and arousal overtook him.

He stripped down. He wasn't supposed to feel these things about her. She was his friend. But she was his. She didn't know that. Why did she have to look so fucking good? She betrayed you. She has no loyalty. She left you like she was scraping dog shit off her boot heel. He sighed and stepped into the shower. The scalding water burned his skin, but he didn't adjust the temperature. He bent his head under it and let the spray consume him for a while willing it to burn the frustration out of him. Eventually, the water cooled on its own.

Mac couldn't get Memphis off his mind. He grabbed his cock and realized was already stiff. It had been hard since he heard her say she hated sex. He wrapped his hand around its thickness and stroked the full length of it.

He closed his eyes and then imagined it was her small hand. She traces her finger down his cheek to his chest, her nail tickling him. She plays with his sparse chest hair. She's looking into his eyes, her big green piercing daggers. She licks her lips as she trails down and grabs him. He feels her warm fingers wrap around him, he barely fits her delicate hand.

"You're so big," she whispers in his ear, her voice full of raw heat. Mac is breathing heavily. She massages his cock carefully, slowly, moaning softly. She starts at the base and pulls all the way to the tip, perfect pressure, perfect timing. She picks up speed and squeezes hard, his member throbbing against her. "Mmmmm, you want me don't you?" She looks up at him, pleading with her eyes. "'Cause I want you. I always wanted you. It would be good with you. You're a real man...Mac...I need you...need you to show me how a real man does it."

He groaned at her words and felt the pressure building inside, but not enough to finish. He yanks her head back with a fistful of her hair and slides the knife smoothly across her breast flaying the tender flesh. The crimson drips then streams down her torso mingling with the water. He braces one hand against the shower wall and as she gave his cock one more good jerk he raised the knife to her throat. He slices through her jugular and comes and it's the best fucking orgasm he'd had in years.

He opened his eyes and realized he was alone. He needed to get the fuck out of there. He dressed carelessly and headed back to the living room. Memphis was asleep on the couch. He snatched his keys off of the scuffed coffee table but hesitated. Seeing her sleep, peaceful and trusting, she looked like a kid again.

"Fuck. I do care about you." He rasped. With awkward tenderness, he moved her hair away from her face. His thoughts of destroying her for his desires faded. He dropped heavily to the floor in front of the couch. He lay back and gazed up at her above him, then stared at the cracked ceiling and zoned out again.

It was pitch black outside, twelve-year-old Mac awoke to multiple taps on his bedroom window. He stumbled over to the glass and pushed it open. He looked down at Memphis, eyes red and puffy as if she had been crying which she tried to hide.

"He did another one." She explained bluntly dropping the rest of the stones she had planned to toss at the window. Mac extended a hand and pulled her up through the window and into his room.

"Must have been bad." Mac lit a cigarette. "You're here."

"Whatever." She reached for the cigarette, took a drag then handed it back to him. He saw how badly her hand was shaking.

He pulled a pillow and blanket off his mattress and tossed them to the floor. "Bed's yours."

"Aren't you a gentleman."

"Shut up." Mac flopped down on the floor, feeling the wood pressing into his back.

Mac and Memphis lay next to one another looking at the ceiling. She flipped on her side and gazed at the boy beside the bed puffing on his cigarette.

"Why are you so good to me Mac?"

"Why do ask stupid questions all the time?"

"We should run away from this hell hole. Just you and me."

"Why you wanna run away with me?"

"Why not? "She asked.

She waited for a response, but Mac snuffed his cigarette and rolled over on his side. She saw fresh bruises on his back and shoulders. She slid down to the floor next to him and hugged him from behind. "We'll get out of here together. You and me I promise."

Promised. A Promise is only as strong as the person who makes it.

"Mac?" Memphis whispered, bringing him back from his memory.

"Mmm."

"Why are you so good to me?" She spoke as if she had never shattered her promise and taken away the little bit of security he had known in his life. His house of glass had laid in a pile of shards for years now.

"Why do you still ask stupid questions?"

She reached down and stroked his arm. "Sorry, I pissed you off. I...missed you so much."

He jerked his arm away and rolled to face away from her. "You need a job, you can work at the Luna. I'll talk to Walter."

Broken promises were like broken mirrors. They left those stupid enough to believe them deformed, bleeding and staring at fractured images of themselves.