Lila walks forward, briskly, her black hair sways slightly in the wind. She has my knives, I think. My heavy-duty trash bags, my duct tape. She has my supplies. She has my advantage. Her narrow face has somehow become slimmer and even more sunken over these months. Lack of sleep or lack of eating, to be frank, I don't care which one.
How is it, that whenever anybody looks my dark passenger in the face, I have to kill them, no matter their level of acceptance. It's unfair. I feel like I've been cheated while playing Candy Land and have to step into the swamp of the Chocolate Monster.
London has shitty pork sandwiches, their so ... clean. Miami has great meat. Hot, sticky meat.
When Lila finally comes back to her apartment, it's after dark, the rich, heavy dark blue sky holds the stars. The moon looks fat, and smug, a little Santa Claus, all knowing, observing us when we're observing it. The oblivious Santa, the oblivious humans.
The door creaks open, the wood shaking off the hinges. I am surprised by the level of quality her apartment holds. When I finally found her whereabouts, I suspected a trashy apartment, with trashy magazines, and trashy neighbors. The exterior of this palace is intimidating, gargoyles spouting water from their carefully crafted mouths, lips forming around words that will never dislodge off their tongues.
I swoop in behind Lila, and needles slips into her neck effortlessly, and she falls back almost immediately. "Dexter," she manages, her voice possessing a metallic rasp that has appeared recently. Her eyes are a violent blue. A deep navy of the sea, a whipping, thrashing maelstrom.
I place her on the couch, on top of a plastic bag. "Dexter." She says again, this time it's more of a judgement, like a mother scolding a child. I sink my knife into her, the blade playing the role of the R.S. Titanic and her chest the sea.
Despite being cheated, I feel nothing as the light of her eyes fades to gray, as the whirlpool goes calm, and a drizzle of blood snakes out of her lips. "Goodbye, Lila." I say, unemotionally.
When I walk out of her apartment building, the gargoyles are spitting pink and I don't pretend I don't know why. By the time anybody bothers to look, Lila will look brown and gray. Water will speed up the decomposition process exponentially.
Goodbye, Santa.