Story - Fiberglass Figurine Part 1

Tonight, I feel like a fiberglass figurine. I feel ready to burn in the blood red moon hanging over my head. This tension has me wound up tight. I need a cigarette and a good fuck. Unfortunately, I can't smoke in the cab and the only chance for any action is miles away.

I told the driver where I was going and he gave me a strange look. I didn't bother to try and explain, I only reassured him that the address was correct. He grumbled something under his voice, tapped the meter and as the red LED numbers lit up his face to match the moon, we pulled onto the street.

It's 20 minutes to my destination and all I have to do is think. I can feel the cold metal of the gun nestled beneath the shirt. I can feel my pulse beneath the metal. It's always a strange reminder. Sometimes, like now, it feels unnatural. Living feels wrong for a few days every time. Then it goes away. Then I feel whole again. Until next time.

They had tied me to a chair. They had pistol whipped me until I bled from gashes on my head and my face. They had broken my nose so many times it had looked like a crushed coke can glued to the middle of what was left of my face. Bobby had stood in the corner and chuckled the entire time. I knew it was him. I could smell his cheap, convenience store cologne.

When his underlings were done playing, Bobby told me why. He told me about her, and the silver plated gun with "Adelaide" engraved on the side. He told me how he'd raped her. How he had danced around the room, naked with the gun in his hands. The gun he'd had made to kill her. Then he explained killing her. It was more like an execution, bent over, whimpering into the cheap carpets of the motel room. When he was done with his explanation he pulled out the pistol. The silver glinted under the bare light bulbs above his head. Through the eye that was still open, I could see the engraving. Adelaide.

Through the broken parts of what had been my mouth, I managed to tell him that I was going to kill him. He just laughed. Then he shot me in the head.

That was three hours ago. I can rub my head and still feel the skin working it's way back to normal. My nose is crooked, but it'll be fine. I'll only have one scar for the rest of this existence people call a life. While the car speeds down the last few miles to the house, I rub my finger along it's path on my chest. The last scar my body ever let me have.

To Be Continued...