The Only Moment We Were Alone
by Christopher Dwyer

My eyelids drop and open like black velvet curtains. The foamy outline of a dark ghost shifts in a single moment before its comet tail is swept into the shadows. All I can hear are my disparate breaths, each one in tune with the pumping glow of white static a few feet away. The television’s electric blush sparkles with the flutter of a dozen dead flies.

Her scent haunts the dusty pillowcase. I can remember taking the last sip, eager green fluid spilling over the back of my tongue with a playful bounce. Her name was Dinah and she had hair as black as tar. I kissed her once, felt the radiance of cherry lip gloss penetrate my impatient mouth. Hours or days later and I’m tied to a bed that might as well be my coffin. My ears popped while I was dreaming. A thick wall of black noise starts to hit my skull with the force of a rusty hammer, Dinah’s giggle a sullen reminder of my fate. She comes into full view, turns off the television. She flips on the lamp in the corner of the room and immediately removes her tank-top. She tosses it over the lamp and my eyes adjust to the dark light.

What…do…you want?

I feel my lips embrace the words but not a single ounce of sound escapes my throat. Dinah sees the struggle in my eyes, the way pain floats through my temples like a dying snake slithering under the skin. She leans over and kisses me on the forehead, lips leaving a burning trail of imaginary ash and snow.

“Relax,” she says, two full handfuls of pale cleavage poking from the top of her purple lacy bra.

I thrash on the bed but it only feels like I’m moving, because Dinah leans over me with a grin plastered on her beautiful face. She reaches into her tight leather pants and the scalpel’s filthy surface is reflected on the sides of the yellowed walls. I bet she can see my eyes follow the blade as she sways it in the dirty air. She brings it to my lips, slides it down my neck and cuts off the first button of my polo.

The scalpel glides back up my torso until it’s in my mouth. It tastes like paint thinner and lost hope. Dinah groans and flips the blade until a droplet of blood flies into her face, crimson freckle amidst a blanket of perfect pastel skin. The side of my mouth burns with rage.

“It’s called a Chelsea smile,” Dinah says, “and you’ll get used to it.”

Another slice and both sides of my cheeks are rimming with fluid. It spills into my mouth, the flavor of death and regret. Dinah jumps off me and walks off into the darkness. She kneels in front of the television and I catch a small glimpse of the heart-shaped reason I approached her at the bar much earlier in my short life. The television fills with static again, and Dinah’s shadow follows her away from the bed.

She comes back thirty seconds later, longer silver blade resting in her tiny hands. Smile shows two rows of flawlessly white teeth and for a single second I swear I can see the feathery backdrop of black angel wings behind her shoulders.