thanks ross (:

The Great Escape

Lying is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

That's what you told me, Mike. Remember? First night we were together, a bottle of beer in your hand, a smirk on your face and those words tumbling from your lips. And then you fucked me.

Maybe not the best start.

Maybe our relationship was doomed from the very beginning.

Maybe.

+

I fell for you fast and stupidly hard. Stupidly because Brad and Rob and Joe had all said "He's only after one thing, is Mike." And I knew that really. But that was, quite honestly, my downfall. That you showed me any attention, it made my day, my week, my month; my fucking year.

So when you said, "Come sing with my band, we could go places with you. You're special." I saw only your smile; your glimmering eyes. And I heard only, "You're special," tumbling from your lips. Words that lulled me to sleep for the next seventy eight nights.

Too bad you meant, "We could go places," and nothing else.

Too bad I let you fuck me again.

Too bad I said yes.

+

No one liked me. Not really. They seemed to tolerate me before. Stupid me for thinking that they were just jealous. That's why they warned me about you, I convinced myself. Jealousy. That's why Phoenix was the only one who really welcomed me.

Because he wasn't jealous.

Which these days, translates roughly to - because you hadn't fucked him and left him with herpes.

No, you did that later.

+

The thing with you, Mike, is that you thought you were invincible. Thought that you could spin your lies and lead everyone to believing you were so fucking wonderful, without shit ever catching up with you.

But that night I found you with that whore on her knees and your dick in her mouth, seventy eight days after I had been the one on my knees making you moan that same way, that's when karma slowly pushed its way into your life.

And my fists.

Didn't see that one coming, did you Mike?

+

The first time I hit you, right after I'd thrown that whore out of our apartment, I didn't feel that great you know. Probably the way you fell right back, so easily; the way you looked so vulnerable with blood pouring down your nose. Watching you scrambling to your feet, running to the bathroom and locking the door, it was hardly what I expected from you. Mr. Big. Mr. I Am. Mr. Fuck Anything With A Pulse And To Hell With The Consequences.

That guilt faded though.

Because I caught you again.

And again.

And again.

My fists weren't enough, were they not? My broken apologies and getting onto the floor on all fours so you could fuck your bruises better, they counted for shit, did they? My wails of "I'm sorry, I just love you so much," or "Please, Mike, am I not enough for you?" and "I'm sorry, just sit still until the bleeding stops..." meant jack shit.

First the whore.

Then Brad.

Then Joe.

Then Rob.

Then my hands wrapping around the knife when you came home smelling of the aftershave that Phoenix wears.

-

"Chester... Please..."

Digging your own grave. Probably not quite what you had planned for your twenty first birthday, Mike?

Me either. It was gonna be just you and me and a bottle of champagne. Clean sheets on the bed and our clothes piling up on the floor.

"Chlamydia, you gave me chlamydia."

Yeah, so I came home from a routine check-up with chlamydia and a vile taste in the back of my throat, to find you fucking Phoenix in the hallway.

So fucking him once, really wasn't enough? And me grabbing that knife and slashing your wrists afterwards wasn't enough either?

"Chester..."

You look so desperate down there in your own little coffin. Who knew Ebay could come in so handy? And the pistol I took from my dad's garage.

It's loaded and I pressed the barrel to your head the entire time you dug. It didn't even waver as I ordered you to drag the casket down inside.

"Please..."

It's in my pocket now, the gun, because your wrists and legs, I bound them with razor wire. I hope it burns as much as this fucking chlamydia does.

"Chaz, this isn't funny anymore. Can we stop this and go home?"

The thing is, Mike, it never was funny. Not to me, anyway. Because, what, exactly is funny about watching someone you love and care about so fucking much, screwing around and taking you for a complete and utter fucking fool?

But to you, this was just a game. Ironic, really, that Brad told me in the very beginning that you were just playing with me.

It's surprisingly easy to do it; slamming the casket lid shut. It's too easy. I just do it; close it. So final, so me standing up here and you lying down there in floods of tears. Should have thought about that.

"Game's over, Mike."

It's three am when I've finally filled the hole, six thirty when I've finally washed the dirt and blood from my hands. Nine in the morning when I've finally blocked out your cries and pleads and sobs and gasps from my mind.

Game. Over.

END.