I ended up sharing a house with my cousin down in New Orleans. I didn’t want to leave the country, to spend too many hours cramped on a plane, so that’s where I picked. And that’s where he died.
About a month ago, the texts started pouring in, telling me that I had a twin walking around Long Island. A girl that looked just like me, down to the floral tattoos across my arms.
Tinder has been a desert of late. Decks of average blokes devoid of adequate grooming or humour. Sigh. I have a whole weekend and a drawer full of Keflex.
When I looked in his eyes, I saw nothingness. Black dots. Like his soul had abandoned his body.
The baby monitor stood on my night stand, as Matt and I could both see it clearly from May’s room. The laughter got louder and louder as it began playing on all three monitors. I picked up May while scared and crying at the same time
I stuffed myself into a lacy blue bra and posed with the knife rested against my cheek, between my teeth, and hovering over my neck. I figured the guy had some sort of fetish. Some bondage, BDSM, masochistic shit. For 500 bucks, I really didn’t give a damn.
It looked like blood, except it was the wrong color. Too thick. It almost felt like the slime we used to play with as kids. The kind that stuck to the wall and crawled its way down.
This whole failing at dating thing is starting to get to me. I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me.
As soon as I sat down at my new station, I knew I was in trouble.
I am a coward and I may have begun the end of everyone I ever knew.