Return To Sender

You stare at me from the other side of the glass.

I want to turn my head away, but even the slightest motion could shatter me, so I do nothing. I sit still instead, my hands gripped so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles are white.

The rain splashes against my face through the open side window. The fury of the storm combined with the growl of the jeep engine almost drowns out the drumming in my ears. Almost. I stare at you for those few seconds, watching your life stain the rainwater around your face red.

You still have that dirty little smile on your lips. I hate that smile, but you know that. You only smile like that because it ruins me.

My jaw clenches and I kick open my door, stumbling out into the downpour to assure the job is done. The storm howls out here like a banshee in heat, and the rain feels like buckshot against my skin. I should have dressed better, but something about the idea of ending it in the clothes you picked out strikes me as poetic justice.

Do I look nice now? I dressed down just for you: the black thong you like, and the bra that matches; the old denims you ripped the first time we played together, and the white pullover I walked home in once you got bored of me. I look like a train-wrecked whore, but you always liked me best at my worst.

I hope you like that whore as much as you said you did. I wanted her to be in the driver seat when I sent your body through Hell and further like this.

Bowing my head against the storm, I give the hood of the jeep—and your body upon it—a wide berth as I circle around to the rear hatch. The old can of gas you gave me on the night we met is still in there. I wanted it to be my parting gift, a dirty cumshot in the face of our relationship, but something about the poetry of the whole scenario pisses me off.

If the tow truck had found me before you did, you would still be alive right now. I would be some other woman, but our positions would surely be reversed, yours and mine: I would be the body and you the handler instead.

You always got to be the handler. I want you handled for a change.

As I pull the can out from behind the back seat, I notice how clean it looks against the inside of my jeep. The red steel container is immaculate, not a speck on it despite all the dust and dried mud littering the area where it sat.

I curse your name aloud and slam the hatch cover down so hard it shakes the whole jeep. I stalk back to the front where your body still decorates the hood and uncap the can. The strong smell of gasoline washes over me until my senses dull a bit and my emotions regain a shred of equilibrium.

Then I lift the can up and start.

The storm rages around me as I work. The downpour splashes as much rain on you as I do gas, trying to compete with me for who can drench you most thoroughly. I have a moment of morbid pleasure in noticing your blood vying for a place in the competition, though the red stain is nowhere near big enough to win.

If it were only blood I wanted, I would have taken my switchblade to that pretty-boy face of yours instead of a two-ton vehicle. I want to send you off with a bang, just like how you wanted to send me—just like how you intended to tonight had I not gotten to you first.

But my bang will not come from a gun. I will give you something greater—something straight out of the hell you always compared me to. I let you die in the rain, and that was my biggest fuck up; it was the one thing you always loved me comparing you to.

I will not make that mistake again.

Throwing the emptied can to the ground, I reach into my pocket and take out my lighter. The hard part is flicking it while my hand is so shaky. My fingers are trembling, and I want so badly for them to stop that when I do get a flame going and burn myself, the pain is a relief.