
The sixth time I was murdered that week was the least painful, but perhaps the most personal.
It all started with breakfast in bed, as most unfortunate things do. Maggie looked more done up than usual: her hair shorter, just cut into a cheeky little bob the other night, her nails freshly painted a royal purple that was so glossy I could see my distorted reflection in them. She walked into my room strangely upright and cheery, like one of those Stepford wives in those soaps she watched constantly, but with an even more sterile and store-bought sense of cheeriness. Like an actress for a Stepford wife who didn’t quite make the cut. And in her hands was a cookie pan, a city of plates and cups and pancakes lying on the top. If I could smell through my broken nose, it would’ve probably been heavenly.
“For my little trooper,” she smirked, laying the pan gently on my chest. I adjusted, moving my shoulder blades up against the headboard and squinting my eyes to get a better view of the feast before me. A tower of pancakes, thicker than usual, but she knows that’s how I like them. Melted butter and syrup cascaded over the rounded edges, dribbling off the plate and creating a little reservoir in the corner of the cookie pan. A small plate of golden hash browns shimmered under the shadow of the tall stack of pancakes, and the glass of orange juice ever so slightly rippled and churned as I adjusted myself into proper eating positions. I was trying my hardest not to knock the glass down with my light-headed morning clumsiness, but judging from the wide and generous smile Maggie was wearing proudly, she probably already had paper towels stuffed in her pocket in case of an emergency.
I studied the pan for a full-thirty seconds as Maggie’s intense friendliness began to singe my soul.
“Thanks, hun,” I said. It was all I could muster.
Silence. I grabbed a hash brown and nibbled at the edge.
“I’ll… call you if I need something.”
For some reason, her feet were planted in place. She wiped her hands off on her apron as her smile faded slightly: from confident yet hammy to unsure and mildly worried. She bit at her lip, as she does when she’s pondering a way to change the topic or turn the conversation to a frequency more in tune with her sensibilities. Trust me, she’d bite her lip in that way quite a bit.
“So!” she said, with unwarranted perkiness, her smiling returning to its former sugar-sweet glory, “How do you like it?” Each word was enunciated with such saccharine enthusiasm that it must’ve strained her little heart to say it.
“I’ve taken one bite, hun. It’s good,” I said. She looked worried again. “It’s good!”
“I know it’s good,” she said dismally.
“You know you’re good,” I reply smiling. “Seriously… thanks.”
She looked down at her apron for a moment as I began to cut the pancakes. Syrup and butter slid off the sides and began to throw tendrils of stickiness against the covers. I snickered, knowing what she was thinking.
“I’ll wash the sheets, hun, don’t worry — ”
“How’s your throat been?” she asked, quickly looking into my eyes.
I traced my fingers around the wound on my throat. Completely closed up. Last Wednesday a meeting with Don Vespucci about paying back all my loans went south, he ended up breaking out the box cutter, climbing over the table, and opening me up like a Christmas present. That was death number five. If you can’t tell, I have a lot of enemies.
“It’s good, doesn’t really sting anymore, see?” I raised my chin and let her look at my neck. “Honestly the rifle round from Monday’s still the worst part,” I said nonchalantly as I grasped the orange juice. “Still hurts like a mother — ”
Maggie winced just before the glass hit my lips. More of a twitch than a wince, like someone stabbed her in the butt with the world’s tiniest cattle proud. This set off a dozen different bells in my head. Making deep eye contact with her, I began to not just sip, but chug the orange juice. After every last drop had been drained from the glass, I slammed the glass back on the table and let loose the most exaggerated aaahh ever groaned. Maggie took two steps backwards toward the doorway. A single droplet of orange juice leaked out through my box cutter wound.
I rose my hand to the droplet and wiped it off with my index finger, and extended it out to a worried looking Maggie.
“I guess the wound’s not fully closed anyway,” I said, furrowing my eyebrows. She gulped down pure air, and her eyes began to go glossy. I shook my finger a little bit, the droplet bobbed and shook. “You want a taste?”
She shook her head as her whole body quivered.
“I’m so sorry, Dave…” she whispered. Her eyes were getting real red now. I would’ve laughed, but that could’ve ripped the wound even more than it already was.
“You know I’ve been poisoned before, right? Vespucci’s guys tried this last month. I didn’t even know until he told me about it.”
She sighed and walked towards the bed, turning around and sitting at the very edge. She motioned to put her hand on my leg, but I scooted my leg just out of reach before she could. This drew out the tears.
“What are you thinking? You know… this doesn’t work,” I said firmly.
“Pete said it would!” she cried and she buried her face in her hands.
“Pete!? Fucking Pete! You trusted Pete?” I couldn’t help but laugh at this point. I grabbed the cookie pan and set it on my nightstand, shaking my head the whole time. Fucking Pete.
Once again, silence. This time, it went on for way too long. I stared at her for awhile. When she walked into the room she was glowing, now there seemed to be a drab void surrounding her very being. Just looking at her in her sundress and her dumb nail extensions made me want to take a shower to wash all the pathetic off of me.
“Why?”
She continued to cry, I continued to stare.
“Why?” I reiterated, quieter this time. Masking my rage behind sensitivity and understanding.
She paused, and looked up from her hands. Her makeup was now running in rapids down her face. She took a couple deep breaths, coupled with a strange whinnying sound. I wanted to call her a horse, but then she might do something drastic. Like try to kill me. Again.
“It’s the debt,” she muttered. “We’re in so much fucking debt.”
“I’m in so much fucking debt. I told you, you don’t have to worry. The don doesn’t fuck with families, he’s got that Italian honor, you know?”
“Until he does, Dave,” she retorted, now looking deep into my eyes. “He’s gonna realize, at one point, that you are… whatever you are. And the only way he’s gonna get you to pay up is by taking the box cutter to me, or God forbid Dave Jr.”
“He won’t do that, honey, there’s no way. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Until it does! Until Vespucci dies and someone else gets that high seat on the table. They might not have that fucking Italian honor.”
Now the poison started doing its business. My stomach churned and boiled, tied itself into knots, rolled around on hot coals. My skin was at this point whiter than porcelain, my veins tinged a purple that was even more royal than Maggie’s finger nails. I sighed, and looked down at the sticky mess I made of the sheets. The pungent smell of butter and syrup turned over my stomach even harder.
“You know what my dad always said… Witness protection is always an option.”
She laughed a bit, sobbed a bit too. “And give up everything we’ve got here? Change our names? Fat fucking chance.”
(For the time being, this story is unfinished since it’s already really long and I’m not exactly sure how I want it to end yet.)
