Lazuline
The ancient school building is like a labyrinth. Endless hallways. Long corridors. Wide smooth staircases. Corners after corners. And echoes. He hates echoes. They make him feel like he's chasing something scary and unknown while being chased; like he's both the hunter and the hunted. His timing was impeccable. He chose the perfect moment to pull the trigger. The sturdy man fell down without a sound. The muscular woman ducked and took cover while calling for help. And he started running. He run like Hell. He didn't know what went wrong. This is supposed to be a perfect plan. The students would arrive before anyone realized something wasn't right. His Cupcake would be there. Standing in the middle of the invisible magic circle. Holding the hand of her brat. Shocked and panic struck. Wide-eyed. He would grab hold of her wild curly hair. He would cup her pale pretty face. He would bite and bruise her lips. He would hear her moan.
He runs past the windows. He runs through the shadows. He still has time to find the door and get out of here. He still has time to jump into the red Audi, start the engine, and drive to the end of the world. Roy Manoso. Roy. He always wants to ask her why she didn't name her brat Carlos. Roy is a white boy's name. It doesn't suit a colored boy. "You shot Derek Jeter! He's a biracial angel!" "You should have shot A-Rod!" The Other Guys. Why is he thinking of The Other Guys? It's such a silly movie. He watched it because he knew it's the kind of movies she likes. Is her kid a biracial angel? Did he shoot the man right through his heart? Why didn't he name his son Carlos? He used to think it would be fun to name his first born Stephanie or Joe. The child would have her hair and eyes and his smile. The child, their child, would be beautiful. Much much more beautiful than the dark-eyed caramel- skinned straight-haired Roy. He lets out a bark of harsh laughter. Yes, he can still feel the hurt. He knows he's never healed. He has been dumped. DUMPED. That night years ago she flushed his heart and dreams down the toilet. She tore his soul apart. He was damaged beyond repair. He will never heal. He runs. He runs like Hell.
He hears shouting. He hears sounds. He needs to find a way out. He needs to find a door. He still has all the keys but his happiness is already lost. But a part of him doesn't want to go. A part of him wants to stay. A part of him wants to look Stephanie in the eyes and smiles his most charming smile when he tells her, "Happy Valentine's, Cupcake, it's payback time." A part of him wants to bend down to look at the child and tell him, "Kid, it's all your father's fault." A million emotions swell inside his heart. He almost breaks into tears. He suddenly remembers how much it hurt when his father slapped him hard across the face for the very first time. He suddenly remembers how how satisfying it was when he smacked a man in the face in his first bar brawl. The world around him doesn't feel real. Not anymore. He's tired. He's just tired. Tired of chasing impossible dreams. Tired of dreaming and wishing and thinking about the past. He's a forty-something police detective. He's good at what he does. He's still good-looking. He knows how to make women scream in ecstasy. He still has his lizard tongue. He sometimes thinks of Terry. He sometimes thinks of all the nameless faceless women. He sometimes dreams of Stephanie. When she was eight years old. When she was sixteen. When she was cuffed naked to her shower curtain rod. Yes, she's juts like a cupcake: rich and simple at the same time. Complicated and easy and in bite size. Soft and moist. Fluffy and sweet. Cheap. Tasty. Affordable. Just want he wanted. Just what he needed. And that child should be his. That beautiful tiny baby. That clever little boy. That brown-eyed dark-skinned Roy.
Revenge is a cold lonely road. She flushed his ring down the toilet. He wasn't invited to her wedding. He heard she was the most beautiful bride in the world. He heard he picked the most perfect wedding gown. Her father cried. Her sister and Grandma clapped. Her mother smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. And no one said a word when they saw her baby bump. And she's still wearing that fancy custom made wedding ring he gave her. It's not a Harry Winston. But she wears it around her finger. She didn't flush it down the toilet. She's still driving those sleek black overpriced German cars. Everyone says she's happy. Everyone says he is perfect for her. Everyone says the boy looks just like him.
He smiles his sad but proud charming smile as he spots a door ahead. He runs and runs toward his freedom. He wonders why she didn't name her son after her crazy Cuban husband. He pictures the image of them entwined in bed. Muscular Mocha Latte arms wrap around her slender white body. Large rough Mocha Latte hands cup her small firm white breasts. Long monstrous Mocha Latte penis releases Mocha Latte sperm deep inside her womb. Did he make her scream? Did he make her moan? Did he make her cry out breathlessly, "Don't stop!" "Harder!" "More!"?
He runs toward the door. He has the card key ready in one hand; His gun feels warm in the other. "Cupcake..."He whispers as the thought of them having sex turns him on. "Cupcake..." No. No. No. He can't let go.