April Storm rammed her hands into her coat pockets and shivered and picked up her pace, trying to generate some heat in her body. She was so sick of the cold, sick of the sidewalks and streets, the cars wooshing by too close, going nowhere, over and over.
You look terrible, he had said. His voice soft. Reminding her of one night in Tacoma or Topeka, she couldn’t remember. She was standing on the top rope, waiting to fly into the match, and from way up high in the arena a man’s voice sang out: “I love you, April.” I love you, April. You look terrible. It was that same sweet tone of voice that made her want to cry, though she never cried anymore.
A horn blared from a red car flying by. It braked and turned and then circled around, slowing to a stop on the cross street in front of her, its hubcaps rolling backward. The window slid down and there was The Axman with his shiny, pockmarked face. Grinning like he’d hit the jackpot.
“Jump in,” he said.
“I was on my way—” She couldn’t think.
“On your way to hang with me?” He patted the passenger seat.
“I was going to get some food,” she said.
“I’ll make you a pizza. Or we can hit a drive-thru. Whatever, babe. The Axman, at your service.” A current of warm air and cologne drifted out of the car, floating on the thumping bass. He would give her all the heroin she wanted—there was that—but it would come with a price: he would be on top of her all night, humping and pumping and raining sweat. Blech. But she could imagine the heroin going into her veins, spreading through her body. Not a high anymore—the highs were gone—but some relief. Which was better than nothing, she decided, so she opened the door and climbed in.
She woke on the floor of the shower, her head resting on a ledge and cold water raining over her body. She got up and wrapped herself in a towel, then she sat on the toilet and hunkered down over her knees, her teeth chattering. Christ. How long had she been asleep? She had gotten in the shower sometime last night because she was covered in his fluids, pee and sweat and semen sticking to her belly and breasts and thighs, all of that mixed with her own blood. And now she was sore all over—her back, her legs, her neck. He had wanted to do all these weird positions. At one point she was on her back, her torso hanging down over the edge of the bed, her head hitting the floor while he banged away on top. The dope was still in her system then, so she could close her eyes and almost imagine he wasn’t there. But there was the constant pounding, her head getting pushed harder and harder against the carpet, and it was aggravating the old injury in her neck.
She got dressed and crept into the bedroom. He was out, thank God, sprawled on his bed, his flabby arm hanging over the side, his mouth squished and wet. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. No response. Good. She searched his place, looking for his product, but she couldn’t find anything, and then finally she discovered the safe in the back of his closet, locked. Fuckhead. She tried a few combinations, but it just beeped and flashed and refused to open, so she hit it with her fist, which only hurt her hand. She dug around in his things until she found his wallet and she cracked it open—nothing but a five-dollar bill, not even a credit card. She took the five and shoved it in her pocket and started for the door, stopping at the aquarium, where a pair of fish were whipping back and forth, their tails rippling behind them like clouds of iridescent ink. “My little angles,” he had said last night. He sprinkled a pinch of food on the water and spoke to them in a nauseating baby voice. “Not too much, Mr. Pretty,” he said. “So pwetty. And Angelica, you’ve got to watch your figure, wittle wady.” He gazed down at them, his hand hanging over the water. “The first pair I bought died after a week,” he said. “Turns out I was overfeeding them. It’s a thing with Regal Angelfish. Super delicate. They have to have the right shit and the right amount. Like you, Ape.” He reached over and pinched her waist, that hungry reptile smile on his face, and she thought, Please, God, make it go fast.
But it didn’t go fast. It went all night. And now she was body sore, and the heroine was gone from her system, and his supply was squirreled away in a safe, beyond reach. Fine, she thought. If that’s the way you want to play it. Ax this, fuckhead. She grabbed the container of fish food and turned it upside down over the aquarium, emptying it onto the water. It formed a putrid floating mass, and the fish went berserk, gobbling it up like they’d never eat again. Which they never would, she thought with some satisfaction. Bye-bye, super delicate, expensive fishies, most beloved of the Axman.
Her hair was still wet and it was cold out. She shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and walked quickly down the busy street as if she had somewhere to be, though she didn’t. She was just moving her body to warm up. Just putting some distance between herself and him, and last night. A few blocks ahead a freight train grumbled over a bridge, and she wondered if she could climb up there and get in front of it. Or lay down on the tracks and wait for the next one. But even that felt like too much work. If she could, she would just flip a switch and be done with her life. April Storm, out. But killing yourself took effort. It was surprising how hard it was to die, how persistently life kept going. Whatever she did to her body—starve it, light it up with too much dope, subject it to the Ax—it kept going, clanking around, wanting things: Warmth. Dope. And now, a cup of coffee. She would kill for a cup of coffee. Which she could get for free at Vern’s place, she realized. He always had a pot going. And it was warm there, humid like a swamp. And he had offered her a job. She could just work a couple of days and earn enough to buy a decent-sized pile of heroin, one that would take her out of this world for good. And then it would finally be Sayonara, shitheads. April Storm, out.
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