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FICTION

posted 11/14/2006

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"Ahhh, that was so good."
    It was after sex again and my head was broken. I was definitely bleeding internally. I think my brain was injured. I was having trouble doing simple multiplication. That's the test I use to gauge head trauma whenever I'm really drunk or I fall down. I'd never had to do it after sex though. I though four times three was eight, and seven times five was two hundred. Fuck.
    Gwen and I had been butting heads like rams. She'd lean over and bang! smack me right in the forehead, then rear back and do it again. She seemed to like it, but I was real dizzy. I was one of those rams that had no horns, a baby ram or a girl ram, so it was just my soft head getting bashed in. I didn't know what the fuck I was doing on that mountain anyway.
    "Ow," I said, lightly running my fingers over my forehead, looking for the crack in my skull. You would think that after so many sex beatings I'd have been numb to the pain, that I was all scar tissue and fused bone and dead inside, but she always found a way to make it hurt like new.
    She took a breath like she was about to say something, but then she didn't and I was glad. Then she did anyway.
    "At first, I thought you were just using me," she said.
    "I definitely am." I just wasn't sure for what.
    "Asshole!" she said, and punched me in the side. And she laughed as my kidney began to hemorrhage.
    That's the beauty of honesty. Everyone's so unused to hearing it they just assume you're kidding, and you get to feel very good and forthcoming without suffering any consequences except for traces of blood in your urine for the next day or two.
    "No," she said, "I was afraid you were just using me to get a position," and she waited for me to catch on and chime in with something clever so we could be just like a witty couple on a sitcom. But I was too preoccupied with my internal injuries to play Smothers Brothers. I didn't need laughs. I needed a doctor.
    "A job I mean," and she grinned, pleased with herself. "But you're not, are you."
    "Ugh," I said, and I flinched as she moved towards me, bracing myself for more punishing sex. But she draped her arm over my chest instead.
    "Even if you were, I'd help you," she whispered as I slipped into a coma.
    "So?" she said, some time later.
    "Huh?"

Apart from beating the shit out of me during sex she seemed like a nice person.

    "Do you want me to talk to anybody for you?"
    "Huh?"
    "Haven't you been listening? At Panopticon. Do you want me to talk to anybody about you maybe getting a job."
    "Huh?"
    "You'd have to start out on the ground floor, maybe even as a temp. But you'd move up quickly. I know you would."
    "What?"
    "There's a lot of opportunity," she said, and raised herself up on one elbow. "So do you want me to talk to anyone for you?"
    "At your insurance company?" She actually seemed serious. "No thanks, I'm all right."
    She looked at me for a long time. Not long enough for me to turn my head and look at her, but still pretty long.
    "You're so independent," she said.
    It was nice of her to want to believe the best about me. People tend to do that with the strangers they're fucking. If she wanted to think that apathy and independence were the same thing, good for her. Maybe she was right.
    And it was nice of her to want to help me out with a job, whatever her real motivations were. Apart from beating the shit out of me during sex she seemed like a nice person. But nice just isn't enough anymore. Everybody's nice, or they at least try to be, or pretend to be. You have to go to France or New York City to find a real asshole these days, and they're only doing it because people expect them to, like those monkeys at the zoo who throw their shit at visitors through the bars. It's more reputation than a real desire to smear feces all over somebody. And that's just sad.
    "What are you thinking?" Gwen said.
    I pretended to be asleep. n°

From Apathy and Other Small Victories by Paul Neilan. Copyright ©2006 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Press.

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