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I'm sitting on my coutch, pristine white, not like the one at my home, too tired to even go to any of the few meetings I was supposed to go to, but it's fine since the last one of the day is in 30 minutes and I will go there to that one at least.
Someone walks into my office, it's Paul. I hope he drops dead. And he almost stumbles and hits the floor with his head, but he doesn't fall, neither hits his head. I thought for a second that my thoughts had become true.
"Patrick?" he calls out my name, and I answer him with an hum. His head is bleeding. Weird, since he hadn't hit the floor, but just stumbled few second ago.
"Why weren't you at any of today's meetings?" he asks me in a condemned tone, as if he knows the time better than I do. I mumble something about it being only 12.
"Patrick, it's 16," he tells me, I check the clock. It shows me that it's 16.05, even thought just a few minutes ago it showed me something compete completely different. Time being 12.03. I check the time again - 16.06.
I look up at Paul again.
His head is no longer bleeding.
I go home. I'm too tired to clean my dirty raincoat that's lying on the dirty floor. Everywhere I look, there's blood. Everything is red, even my tears. I statr scratching out my eyes and ears.
Why ears? I don't know, it sounds like someones is banging the door. I go to them to open them. They are empty. I close them once again, but the banging doesn't stop even when I lock them with a key.
I open them once again, there is Paul and I'm scared to allow him to go into my flat as it is covered with his own blood. The walls, flooŕ, my raincoat that I have on.
I try to talk to him outside the door, but he asks me to let him in. I don't want to make him see what I've done with his insides. 'Please forgive me' I want to say those words to him
He walks in, I see an axe. I slash his head for him to not become a witness for a crime he had been the victim of. It would be too cruel to make him witness a scene he himself had died in just a week ago.
I got rid of him the same way as last time, within a plastic bag inside an acidic bath.
When I got back home, the banging has not stopped. I go to the door and see Paul Allen again. He standing there, looking like he hadn't even lifted a finger, like he hadn't banged on my door for hours.
"Will you let me in this time," he jokes, I think, at least in that tone, "Or will I be left standing outside your flat for the third time today?"
I let him in.
The walls are clean.
"Finally, you let me in," he says those words to me, "I thought you had one of these days when you leave me outside your door for ages."
What is he even talking about. I have never left him outside my flat. He probably is joking or making it up, I can never guess when he's joking and when he's not.
I hum to give him an answer of sorts as he walks around the flat in the direction of my fridge. Hid steps are unusually slow, so different from usual. He's wearing his favourite suit, a double-breasted wool suit I don't know the brand of.
He opens the fridge. I'm sweating bullets at the thought of now having to kill Paul for seeing another person's head in my refrigerator.
But, no. He doesn't look shocked, I walk myself to the freezer and see no head within side it. Where is it? Where? I have not ate it yet, no? No? I hope I haven't as I don't want to gain weight, but still to be safe I, later after Paul leaves, will do my stomach crunches and other exercises again.
"Patrick," he says with a look of concern at me. Why does he do that, I don't know. I look in the fridge, there is nothing there, only an ice cream that's long past expiration date and few bottles of alcohol in there, "We talked about this."
Why does ir matter? It's not like I often eat at home, I don't even know how to cook anything myself. There is no need for food to be in the refrigerator.
"Patrick," god, his voice is so annoying.
"What do you want from me?" I shout at him. I'm so tired of him and his 'worries' about me. He probably doesn't care about the fact that my fridge is empty. He doesn't care about the fact that I'm 'starving' or something like that.
He only wants to make fat, no? Fat and unattractive, so noone else will want me. He probably thinks I look better than him and is jealous of me because of it.
His face expression makes it seem that he has been hurt by my words, but I know he all he does is lies. Each and every word he has said to me, has been only a lie.
'I love you', 'You have pretty eyes', 'I wish we lived together' and those other lies.
If he truly loved me he wouldn't try to make me unattractive like he intends to do now. I hate him. Why have I not killed him yet? No. I did, but somehow the walls are clean and he is still here with me.
Almost like he's trying escape the death just to be with me, but, oh, doesn't he know that even in death he will stay with me forever. He won't have to be worried about me leaving him as he will stay in my freezer for eternity.
Or at least till I get hungry.
"Let's go to Dorcia's," he tells me, but I don't want to eat as I don't know if I have eaten her head or not. I hope I haven't. My head hurts thinking about those calories. I want to throw up just in case I ate it not too long ago.
"I don't want to."
"Why?" his brows furrow, his expression tensing up before he sights, "Patrick, we talked about this already."
"About what?" I shout, done with his insecurities, the way he's so envious of me that he's ready to almost force feed. No, Paul, I don't want to go to Dorcia's, so I can gain even more weight than I probably have. There's also no need to shove in my face that you can get reservations at Dorcia while I can't.
"Patrick, don't play dumb," he says, looking me straight into my eyes. It makes me uneasy, I want to make them blind, "When was the last time you ate?"
"Why does it matter?" I ask him, thought, I don't know. When the head dissappeared? I have no clue. So, 'sorry', Paul, for not knowing when I last ate aomething. When I last ate something that's not human remains? I don't know. Yesterday, the day before yesterday?
But, Paul, some of us are cannibalistic and with bad memory, so they can't tell you that their forgot when was the last time they ate a human head.
"Patrick."
"I don't know, okay?" I give up and tell him, "There was something in my fridge, and it's no longer there, and I forgot when I even ate that."
"What was it?"
"What was what?" I answer him, playing dumb, hoping he gets tired and drops the whole conversation, but sadly for me, it doesn't seem the case.
Paul just looks me with a completely done expression, and suddenly I'm worried that he's tired of me, he's done with my problems and 'eccentricities' as he likes to call them. I'm worried that he will leave me alone, and it must show on my face as suddenly his grimace changes and he's looking concerned again.
God, I hate him.
I don't know what I would do without him.
"If you don't want to eat outside, I can cook something for you?" he softly says, why does he always treat me as fragile? I'm not some woman. So, why? Why does he treat like I'm a glass that will soon break.
But I am a glass that breaks, and when I break, I see his body dissolving in acidic bath again.
I know she's fucking him. I know Evelyn's not loyal to me, but I haven't been as well. I'm borderline cheating on her with Paul. The fact that we haven't fucked yet doesn't change a thing, we have kissed more than Evelyn and I in our whole relationship.
God, I feel like Luis Carruthers. Fucking a woman while thinking of other men. I close my eyes and see Paul, under me red with blood.
Stop.
At least I'm not like Carruthers, since I differently from him like his girlfriend's tits while he probably hasn't even seen them yet.
Evelyn's best friend Courtney, whom I'm fucking, is even betraying her by being with me. That's what she gets for cheating on me with Tim. Fucking bitch. I hadn't even been the one who started doing it first. I only found that out when Tim told me it while he had been high on his ass.
I miss him before he went to rehab.
Maybe I should get into rehabilitation as well, since it's not normal for the people that you've killed to wake up every morning and kiss you on your lips. I have killed Paul at least hundred times, but I wake up next to him rather too often.
But I don't want it in any way possible if one morning I woke up with Paul being gone forever, I wouldn't know what to do. I'd probably kill myself out of sadness. I'm not sure if I can live without him anymore.
'He's everything to me', I say to myself, though every time I kill him, I hope he will finally be gone forever. I have even tried eating his brain just to know how it tastes. I have only ate it raw as I don't know how to cook at all.
Maybe he could teach me, but I doubt I could cook something edible and even if I could I doubt I would ever put that in my mouth. It in no way would compare to Dorcia.
"Could you teach me how to cook?" I ask to his dead body.
He's no longer here with me.
It will soon start to rot as it has been lying in my bed for few days already. Paul wanted to leave me to go London again. I killed him with an axe like the last time to keep him from leaving me behind.
Then I went to his flat and did everything like I did last time - left a voice message, packed his things, even bought a ticket.
I put my hands in his.
We both are sitting at Dorcia. He has finally flew back from London and I couldn't be happier about it. On other note, there is a paradox happening right now as Paul's dead body in my bed didn't dissappear, but Paul somehow is still sitting in front of me. One of them might be a hallucination, but I hope it's not this one as I don't want to be talking to myself in public space.
"Are you real?" I jokingly ask him, thought the question couldn't be further from the truth. I don't know if he's real or not, so I have made a point to speak as little as possible.
"No," he answers me with an smile, confirming that he's indeed real, as my hallucionated Pauls rarely smiled. I don't know why, maybe I really want him to just shut up.
Thought, of course he's real. I couldnt have gotten a reservation at Dorcia by myself even if my life depened on it. Maybe that's one of the reasons he never leaves me. Who else would take me to here if not him?
I look around Dorcia tables and notice Carruthers. He can get a reservation at Dorcia, and I can't? What is this bullshit? Is even he better than me? He can't be. I'm not a faggot like him. Why? Why does he get an reservation, but the only way I can get here is throught another man?
I'm holding back my tears.
I'm literally seconds away from bawling my eyes out in fornt of all these people. Paul has seen me cry more often than I would have liked, but then again, I would have prefered not to have even one time.
"Are you alright?" Paul asks me, stabbing his fork in whatever he has ordered.
"No, I'm not," I tell him, tired of this world, "There," I look in Luis direction and Paul turns his head before saying, "So?"
As if it was nothing. As if it had been easy for me to tell him what was wrong with me. Now I'm actually at verge of tears. God, Paul, why? I don't want to cry in front of so many people.
"So?" I repeat after him, "Even Luis Carruthers can get a reservation at Dorcia, but I can't?"
I hadn't told that yet, but I always had a feeling Paul knew. Why otherwise he would be the one to always take us out at Dorcia while I only took us out at some random restaurant like Barcadia or something else.
"Are you really that upset over this?" he asks me as if he doesn't know. As if he has no clue how much my social standing impacts me even if it looks like it doesn't, since my social standing is actually so low that it's actually embarrassing to care.
"Yes," I both quietly and quickly mumble, hoping that he doesn't actually hear my answer and goes back to stabbing his food. Why are we even at Dorcia if he doesn't even like the food here?
"I thought you liked it here?" Paul answers to me.
Seems that I said that out loud. I don't know what to answer to him, so I don't. It's easier that way. I continue eating whatever is on my plate.
"Remember those times when you met me and mixed me up with Marcus Halberstram?" I ask him. I don't even know why. I probably just want to hurt myself even more than I'm already hurting right now.
"No?" he answers me, looking up from the book he's holding.
I don't say another word, already hurt by his first answer enough. Tonight I won't sleep curled up next to him, but instead to his week rotting body that's lying next to me.
"Kid's Meal please with fourth toy," Paul says to the cashier before paying her.
We choose to go to McDonald's.
It was emotionally too exhausting for me to go to anywhere else, so we are at McDonald's buying Chicken Nuggets with a Kid's Meal.
"Here," Paul says with smirk in his voice, "For you," he says while giving me the toy.
I take it before I start loudly psychoanalysing the toy and it's texture, the material, the meaning, the way it's compared to other McDonald's toys from before.
Paul had said that he liked hearing my thoughts. I just think he said that to know what I'm thinking. No way anyone actually likes my long monologues. They usually just make people uncomfortable.
That's one of the reasons I tell them to prostitutes. To make them even more uncomfortable than they already are within my company.
We probably look out of place with our bussines suits and Oliver People glasses while others are sitting here, giving away their last money on this greasy food.
It makes me proud. It makes me happy that I'm not them. No matter how 'eccentric' by Paul's and probably, in best case, other's thoughts I am, at least I don't have to dine in McDonald's every day for my whole life.
I eat those 4 chicken nuggetss and at least for these I can search up calories on the internet, 176 cal. I don't believe them, there has to be more as it's too oily for it to be so less.
I don't understand how poor people can be fat if they don't have any money to buy food. They should be skinnier than that anorexic prostitute I killed last night in our bedroom.
Sometimes I wish I was poor, at least I could be skinny as her. Paul wouldn't leave to London so often, and I would be nicer to look at. I would of course keep up my exercises, so I wouldn't look like her weak and fragile, but strong instead.
I wish I was thinner, looked better.
I wish I looked better than I do now. I will probably fall for those anti-aging scams in future rather soon. Even at the age of 27, I'm already using one of them.
Paul doesn't know how much money I spend on my skincare, haircare, everything concerning my appearance. He has no clue how many products I actually have. He has seen a few and made fun of me for them. But let's see who laughs last when you will look like Detective Kimball who's the same age as us.
I hope he will still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful, but I won't fault Paul if he leaves me for a younger man or a woman as I doubt that even I will be able to like myself then as well.
I'm throwing up with tears in my eyes and fingers in my mouth. The vomit smells foul.
Paul is sitting in my bed. I think. He doesn't know what I'm doing in here. At least I hope so, I don't want another discussion about this yet again. I don't want to hear his fake worries, since I know he would be happier if I was fat and ugly, unable to cheat on him.
I haven't cheated on him, not even once. But I could and that's what's important to me.
Paul soon will probably ask me what I did in here for so long, but I'm still not sure what to answer him. Maybe I should pretend I had a shower. I turn my showe on, in case he walks up to the door to make sure I'm not throwing up our dinner which we had at Dorsia.
I am thought. I think I can see my intestines on the floor. They are not a pretty sight and maybe they would have been if I had been better and exercised more, instead of spending evenings with Paul at restaurants or outher places like that.
I think I have gained weight. I'm not sure as I don't have any scale at my home. I should buy it soon, I'm scared of what I will look if I go to another restaurant with Paul ever again.
I feel like I should have never let him in my life. The only thing that he has brought me is misery and hurt. I hope the next time I kill him will be the last one out of those many times that I had tried to kill him.
I take in another breath before I vomit the last thing that has stayed in me. There's my heart within the pool of vomit on my floor. Now I'm trully empty without anything inside me. I can truly breathe even thought I no longer have any lungs within me.
I take the knife that's in one of my drawers and exit the bathroom. He's standing next to the bathroom's door. Paul begins to ask what that thing is on my mouth in my face. After that, I can't know since he immediatelly starts screaming after I stabbed him in the neck. Understandable, but still annoying.
Could he shut up for once in his life?
Paul's knocking on my door, and I immediately hide the knife.
"Yes?" I say to him, closing the drawer with the knife.
"Can I come in?" he asks me as if I would answer with anything but 'no'. Why would I even allow him in? But still, there have been times when I allowed him in for a quick fuck nothing else, but with my heart on the floor and stench of the vomit in air, I cannot let him go in here, not even for a second.
I quickly mop the floor with a random towel, hiding my heart there, flush the toilet and undress myself to quickly get under the shower. God, the stench of vomit is still here.
"Patrick," he says more impatiently again as I scent the air with something Paul had bought for 'fresher air' or something like that. I don't know what to do. Can't he oame here later?
I quickly get under shower to wet my hair before I go and open the door to see Paul on the other side of the door. He is alive like aways. I don't know if I'm happy that he's alive or sad that he's soon to discover my lies.
I let him in the bathroom as easily as I had let him in my heart.
He comes in, he doesn't say a thing.
I brethe a sight of relief as he leaves after taking something with him.
I wash myself and do my hair again even if I had already done it in today's morning. I look in my mirror, I'm looking back at myself. I look so empty. I hope Paul will never notice it.
I throw the vomit stained towel in the trash. My thrown up heart has been taken by Paul a while back.
Jean is telling me something, but it seems that I can't hear a word that she's saying. I feel like it's going to be something important like that meeting I didn't go to, but I can't bring myself to listen to anything she says.
I nod to her, hoping it will suffice. She begins to smile, and I wonder if I agreed to something I will regret. She leaves my office, and suddenly the sound comes back. Everything is getting too loud.
I feel like I'm going to pass out.
"Why do you space out so often, Patrick?" Paul asks me, his tone worried. He's faking, there's no way it's real, "It can't be healthy," he adds.
What does he know about healthy? Is doing coke in bathrooms healthy? Is any of this healthy? Is even our relationship healthy?
What he's intending to do, telling me this? Show me his pity? Show the concern he doesn't have? If he actually cared about me he would't have left right after our last fuck.
I wish he had curled up next to me like usual. I wish I could have slept on his chest like those few times. I wish he hadn't left me for whatever unimportant reason he had.
Why does everyone leave me?
Why?
"Patrick, you're doing it again," he tells me as if I didn't notice. I didn't.
"Yes, I'm fine," I brush him off. Didn't he hear the first time I said that? Does he listen to me at all?
"Fine," he sights, putting his hands up in surrendering gesture, "I was just asking. If you don't want help that's on you."
My head immediately snaps to his.
"What do you mean I need help?"
"Patrick, I didn't mean that," he lies, like usual. That's all he seems to know. Probably how he got his job. Noone would want him at firm anyways. That's a lie. He's so much more liked than me. Why? Why is that faggot more likeable than me? What did I do wrong?
Nobody wants me. Even Paul. Why is he even talking to me at all?
"We should break up," I softly tell him, suprising myself by my own just said words.
His eyes widen before he asks, "Why?"
"You don't like me anyway, so I don't see why we should stay in relationship," I say with cold tone, hoping to look nonchalant, even thought I'm being everything except that.
My chest is hurting as if I was drowning just because of the fact that Paul is no longer going to be here and I will be back on my own again.
I can feel tears dwelling up in my eyes and hands beginningto shake, but I look down, not into his face soche doesn't see my pathetic face.
I try to calm myself down, but I can't. It must be a sad and ridiculous sight, but Paul probably is enjoying the moment because for what other reason he would have put up with me for so long if he secretly did not enjoy watching me embarass myself all of the fucking time?
He probably enjoyed watching me squirm. He enjoyed watching me throwing up or exercising till death after eating at Dorsia too much.
He enjoyed watching my suffering.
"I care about your wellbeing," Paul murmurs looking away, probably hurt from my reaction. That's what he gets for pitying me.
He turns away to leave.
No.
I don't want him to leave. I have noone else.
Please don't leave me.
Please. Please. Please.
Please.
Please don't leave me.
His lying body is on the floor. His head is no longer attached to his other end. He tried to leave. I had no choice. I had no choice.
The corpse in my bed is no longer sleeping there.
We are sitting in Dorsia again. He no longer allows me to choose the restaurants we are dining in. He always tells me can't trust a guy who had the first date in Texarkana.
It hadn't been a date. I had truly intended to kill him. To chop up his remains. I remember it all too well. The planning that went throught it. His dead, lying, bloody body on my floorboards. I remember it all too well. But then again, I remember all of his deaths till my end.
He comes into my room or his. I no longer remember.
"I'm thinking of Dorsia at 8, Friday?" Paul tells me, asking me if I'm coming.
"No," I answer him, I don't know why. I want to spend time with him, but it's no longer Paul. The real Paul died after the end of our 'date' Texarkana.
I miss him. I miss the real Paul so much.
He smiles at me unnaturally as if he just read my thoughts.
I just killed him once and for all. He died exactly the same way the first time he met his end.
I'm slashing him with axe still. I'm shouting something about Dorcia, thought, today was the last time I ever was at Dorcia because, differently from Paul, I can't get any reservation at all.
I finish breathless, blood on my face. I take off my raincoat and put it on his face. I felt like his eyes were warching me, but the raincoat is clear, so maybe I wanted him to actually see me.
They are still staring.
I smoke my cigar, worried about the color of my walls. This time, I didn't put any newspapers on the floor, so I'm worried about the discolouration I'm going to see soon tommorow's noon.
I go to my bathroom, I wash my face. It's still red with blood and I doubt I will ever be able to wash it off.
I try to clean it off, but my face just becomes redder. I try to rub it off even harder, but my face becomes even rawer. My skin is peeling off.
I nib it a bit and suddenly I'm without the skin I had put so much care into.
I look at my body, it's naked and bloody red. Thought, I used the raincoat and even had a suit on. My ribs look pretty, I want to eat. I cook Paul, so he always stays with me.
"Patrick? Why are you not eating anything?" he asks me at, guess where, Dorsia again. Maybe the food here is shit, Paul? Why do you think I don't dine here? Not because I can't get reservation at Dorsia, obviously, but because the food here's bland.
I'm lying.
I can't eat. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can still feel his entire being within me; his eyes, his hands, his lovely heart. I tried my hardest to not hrow it up.
"Maybe because the food hete is horrible?"
He looks at me with unimpressed stare. For some reason, I feel shame. I don't have to explain myself to him anyway. What is he even thinking taking me here? I almost never eat a lot when we are out or when we are at home, or basically anywhere.
"I only worry about you," Paul says those words to me that I choose not to believe in. Because why would he ever care about me. I'm not one of those models that Paul had before he met me.
I sometimes wish I had chosen a model's career then I would always be good-looking. It basically would be my job. But now I have to sit all day in my chair, not doing even a thing. How am I not overweight yet.
I hope I never become what my dad looks like.
"Patrick," he says in a soft voice, caressing my face with his bloody hand while bleeding on the floor. I had killed him once again.
But I neither worry, nor am I sad because he will be back tommorow soon.