I Might Go to Heaven Ch. 4

Mornings for me are hard. I'm a light sleeper and also constantly anxious, so it's mostly me eating bad food, watching TV, desperately trying to not call Alice. The last point is a recent development but a major one; I haven't heard from her in months at this point, beyond what I see in the news or read about online. She's gotten popular on social media as of late, mostly overseas, sometimes popping up in the shittier places here at home. I recline back in my bed, closing my eyes, and try to picture her.

Like Esko, and everyone else, I've never seen her face, just the mask she wears. The current one is latex, like mine, but shiny white and marked with two heart eyes she drew on herself with a red marker. We're given some kind of freedom in our disguises, really the main point is plausible deniability. I didn't see you, you didn't see me, etc. Alice's mask has no mouth or nose holes, how she breathes through it is a massive mystery to me. The last time I saw her, our last job together, she had abandoned the standard suit part of our outfit as well, opting for a more militaristic look. I spent the entire night (until the thing) making fun of her. Fascist Alice, with her giant black boots, her urban camo. I told her I could smell the "Don't Tread on Me" flag all over her. I could imagine her in her giant truck, rubber balls swinging back and forth from the trailer hitch. I cranked country music the entire night and we laughed and acted like idiots. Now I have Esko with his silent car and his lack of humor and his necrophilia. A downgrade had been made, not of my choosing.

The sun creeps in in slight, harsh, rays and brushes across my face. I'm not trying to be an emotional teenager here, but I hate it. I've never been a day person at all, too hot, too many people out leading regular, useless, lives, the bad kind of noise everywhere. I want the night back already, with its gentle humidity and its breeze, its stillness. Driving around listening to music, allowing my head to empty completely, taking my hands off the wheel and veering into traffic, pulling into my lane at the last second. I can imagine the terrible diners with no patrons at 3:00 a.m., burnt coffee that has been sitting out all night, stale toast, bacon or some other breakfast meat that has been getting cooked in the same fat on an uncleaned grill for weeks.

I roll over in bed so I'm on my stomach and place the pillow over my head, blocking out the beams of the hateful star. I can't stop thinking about Alice and what she's doing now, what country is she in? Who is she murdering right now? Are they putting up a fight? The final question is an easy "no," of course. No one has ever murdered someone as beautifully as Alice has, I'm sure. It's why I was so happy to have her as a partner at first, it was only later we became real friends. That first night I can still see her drenched in blood, alone in the elevator surrounded by bodies, two batons clutched in her hands. Not a single body could have been identified as a human being after she was done with them. I can't lie, sorry, thinking about it now I could feel myself getting hard. No time for that though, it was time for horrible, restless sleep instead.

I'm not even somewhat unconscious when I hear the paper slide under my doorway. I debate getting up, letting it wait until later, until I remember Rooney sitting in his office, smoking his cheap cigarettes and judging me with his tiny rodent eyes. If I'm being real with myself, I'm on probation, and when he tells me to jump I have to ask what dick he needs me to land on. I push myself out of bed with a groan and swipe the envelope off the floor. Inside is another folder, another job. Flipping through the pages, I stop on a single black and white photo, the job itself.

The picture is grainy, either taken from a security camera or a home video. The person in the picture, a slender, serious looking man, is sitting in a chair looking straight forward. He's wearing a ratty suit that is too small for him, the pants barely covering the bottom half of his legs. His hair juts out from several angles and even with the low quality of the picture I can tell it's greasy and unwashed. His eyes are sunken into his thin skull and look like they've seen everything and then came back unimpressed. Well...me too, you morose dick.

I place everything back into the folder and toss it onto the table in the dining/living/everything else that isn't isn't bathroom room. The possibility that I will need further employment sinks in slowly and sadly as I look around at the cramped, but neat, space. Can you fucking imagine the indignity of those potential interviews?

"What makes you qualified to work here as a server?"

"Well, I've had to break open a rib cage before with a croquet mallet. Also, I've pulled someone spine out of of asshole."

"Perfect, you'll take the early morning rush."

Without thinking I'm suddenly at the phone and I'm dealing Alice's number. I feel all the air rush out of my body and I just stand there rocking back and forth, waiting out the dial tone. I finally go to hang the phone up and before I click it back into place I hear the smallest, coldest little "hello" and there's my erection again.