I hated him; not her.

 

I hated him the moment I saw him belt her in my apartment.

I wasn’t supposed to see him do it, him hiding the blow as to send her a message.

He wanted her to obey him, but couldn’t say it out loud in front of me.

He was the hip cat with the artistic music tapes Dale always went on about, as if this cat was the only one who could hook together songs to make head-trip tapes.

I did it, too. But nobody noticed.

And I hated him for that, too.

But when he hit her he went too far.

So I threw open my apartment door and told him to get the fuck out.

She could stay. He had to go.

She hadn’t done anything wrong – or at least nothing he hadn’t made her do.

Talk made the rounds of the circuit.

Such as how he made her do porno films.

And how he forced her to do drugs.

I figured I could take her in for a few days until she made other arrangements.

I always admired her, yet made sure he never noticed.

She was pretty as hell.

Everybody said so.

Yet she was as strange as him.

She refused to stay, trailing after him out the door like a beaten but loyal dog.

I called for her to come back, begging to let me help her.

She glared at me and told me to drop dead.

I yelled back, “It’ll serve you right if he kills you,” then I slammed the door.

I didn’t mean it.

I wish now I could take it back.

God knows the cops will kill him when they catch him for living her body in the street like that.

At least, I hope they kill him.

If only to keep him quiet.

If only to keep him from telling them how she did come back later, and how I got her high, and when she was high, I fucked her.

I didn’t mean to make her cry.

I didn’t mean for her to run out and find him.

I didn’t mean for him to do what he did when he found out what I did.

I hated him, not her.

Now I hate myself.