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Stories # - L | M - Z | Authors
by Kill Favored
I’m going to shoot myself. Yep. Very happily, proudly, with lots of enjoyment, shoot myself.
You know, if you really care, you’d call me. Hm? The phone doesn’t ring. Yeah, thought as much.
So you know, there’s the gun. Oh, you poor girl, you have
your own life. Seems I don’t fit in it? Why the hell
didn’t you tell me years before? Five years, living a lie? Five
years, you made a mistake? You bitch. You unadalterated
bitch. Did it ever occur to you that I loved you more than life
itself? Did you ever realize I’d bring down the moon for
No. Instead, you take up acting. Sure, go ahead to the little
community theater across the way. It’s all acting.
You were so excited when you got your first part, simple three
liners. I went to the play - even though I hate crowds
– and cheered for you there. Your family was there, looking
down at me like they always did, but I didn’t care. I was
there for you.
Simple three line parts graduated to supporting roles. To leading
roles. To be ambitious, they wanted to try Shakespeare.
They shortened Cymbeline and gave you the staring role of Imogen, a
woman accused of adultery. What’s that called in
literature? Oh yeah, foreshadowing.
So off you go and do this play. The place is packed –
nobody does Cymbeline, it’s not popular, but all four shows ran
and you and your leading man got sparkling reviews. You come home
every night, excited and flushed, and I think it’s the
play. I never see you there, the crowds are too thick for me to
even peek in. How did you do? Fine, they loved it. Mom was
there, too bad you couldn’t make it, sis saw me and she said I
looked so beautiful, did you say you were working tomorrow night at the
convenience store? Yes, I am.
I go to the store but can’t concentrate on my work. I know
the play’s going on and you’re off running the boards, and
I’m feeling sick the way I usually do when I have more bile in my
stomach than food. Unfortunately, I can’t leave the store,
but as luck would have it, Mark came in to check on something and I
asked him to watch the place while I go home and take hit of some pills
I had especially for that.
No problem, he says, so I go home and pull into the driveway – I
left the hallway light on? I open the door to the car and come
out – the hallway light goes off seconds after I slam the car
door closed. I tilt my head, that was odd. Maybe
someone’s robbing our apartment! The gun’s in the
house, and hopefully they didn’t get it. A regular, plain
old, Smith and Wesson .38 double-action revolver. Point, shoot,
you get kicked back about a hundred yards. Load the bullets into
the chamber, no magazines, come on! This puppy is a MAN’S gun,
with a beautiful black matte finish, lovingly taken care of by one
owner, and shot countless times. Did I mention that I have a
whole safe full of guns? Yep. But it’s not here,
it’s in storage. You don’t like guns in the
house. I feel better with one at hand. I go in my
trenchcoat to get that stuff out – the .22 Browning
semi-automatic; the 20 gauge Remington and 12 gauge S&W shotguns
used for skeet shooting (I was number 4 out of 20 at our gun club three
years ago); the Colt .38 – so I’m a little biased toward
American weapons. So shoot me.
In I go, wary as all hell, figuring they’re going to come after
me. Then I hear movement, and a man’s voice, but I
can’t understand. Then a woman’s voice.
I slam the door shut. Female thieves my ass. I glance at
the clock as I go into the kitchen – oh, yeah, the play’s
still going on. Right above my damn head.
I get into the bathroom and my ears are peeled for the slide of a
window being opened or a door being slammed shut, or someone getting
stuffed into the closet. No, they’re quiet up there.
Probably giggling over me, me being stupid and going to the bathroom to
get the Plavex to settle my stomach which now has bile heading half way
up my esophagus. Me being even more stupid and going back
outside, getting back to the car, and driving to the store.
Mark has everything under control, as usual, so he leaves. I kick
around the store for a bit, concentrating on taking inventory of every
Hershey’s product in the place. And there’s an awful
lot of them. Hershey’s with Almonds, Mars bars – no,
that’s Mars now. Reeses’ peanut butter cups.
Kissables. We have 52 packages of Kissables.
Midnight and I’m cleaning the soda bar and I realize the theater
crowd has probably gotten out. So that means you’re in the
dressing room. You’re cleaning the makeup from your
face. Maybe the rest of the girls are gone. Maybe
you’re alone. Maybe what I thought happened didn’t,
and someone else had broken into the apartment and was using it.
Maybe when I get back I’ll find nothing there because a female
thief actually did steal everything. Maybe it’s just
So off I go into the night, wondering if that voice was yours, hoping
that voice wasn’t yours, that it was the neighbor’s or a
ghost. I go home, come in the same way, go into the
kitchen. The clock has advanced about three and a half
hours. I don’t bother putting the light on. I go
through to the bathroom and do my business – oh, by the way, the
bile has gone, isn’t that nice to hear? I knew you’d
I come out into the darkened kitchen and go to the fridge. By the
light of its open door I absently count the number of beers in
there. I remember four. Why are there three? Of
course my next look is the trash can – can you be that
stupid? No, no beer cans there. The recycle bin outside, of
course. But any moron could throw an extra can in there.
I shut the door. I go upstairs to the bedroom and take a big
whiff of Febreeze. You say you can’t smell it, but I always
can. I sit on the edge of the bed. Did you do it here?
My eyes widen – Something’s making me think these
things. No. You’ve said you cared about me. Granted,
you never came right out and said, “I love you.” But you
beat around the bush so often that it was impetus enough for me to move
in here with you. And you didn’t complain, you didn’t
make me sleep on the couch. I thought we were together.
You never said “I love you.”
I close my eyes against the tears. I should have known. My
sleeping with you is a novelty. You’ve never had someone
like me spoon against you in the dark of the night, cupping one breast
with loving familiarity, my lips caressing the back of your neck.
No, no one like me.
I sit there in the half-light of the hallway shining in, watching the
light pool on the rug. Did you do it there too? Did you do
it in the hallway? On the stairs? Did you moan for him like
you do for me?
I hear a car door slam and I hear the key in the lock. How long
had I sat there, staring at the light on the rug, counting the
fibers? I hear you at the base of the stairs.
“Angie? Angie, I’m home.”
My hand is closed in a fist, I don’t realize it.
What’re you gonna do, sock a girl in the face? Ruin that
pretty face? My nails bite into my palm, I’m holding it so
tight. I hear the click clack of heels come up the wooden steps,
down the hardwood floor of the short hallway.
“Angie?” She flicks the light on in the bedroom
– it’s too bright, I want to scurry away like the cockroach
I feel I am.
She smiles at me. Again flush and excited.
“Everything okay? You’re sitting alone in the
“Migrane,” I reply. I have almost every single god
damn common ailment known to man and some that aren’t. Asthma,
high blood pressure, lactose intolerant, allergic to almost every
common pet, probably even including fish.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she says, shutting the light
off. I’m staring at her, wanting to rip that smile off your
“So how did it go?” I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my voice, biting off the words, “You bitch.”
“Great! We did really well, and I think they’re going
to do another Shakespeare next year. We’ve got a two week
break. I have no idea what I’m going to do.
I’ll be so bored at home. Nicholas said that there’s
a bigger theater in Axwell and maybe I should go there. He said
I’d be really good. What do you think?”
“It’s your decision.”
She smiles at me through the mirror. “Yeah. Hey, I
can’t see what I’m doing, I really need that light.”
“Of course, dear,” I reply and leave the room. Let
her wash the sperm off now so I don’t’ have to see it or
smell it on her. Gee, she’s smart like that.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, and go downstairs to the
side table. Yep, side table drawer. Right next to the big
comfy couch. Against the wall with the bay window.
I open the drawer. Oh, there you are, my precious. Better
than a gold ring that makes you invisible and eats away your soul
– this puts a hole in your chest that I could drive a semi
through. But not yours, not that nice ample chest with the soft
“Where you going?”
I go to the other side table drawer. Next to the other side of
the big comfy couch. Against the wall by the bay window.
This one has a plant on it. I hate plants, but she takes care of
them. I pull it open – there’s the ammo. Rule
one of having a gun in the house needed against forced entry –
keep the gun and the ammo separate enough to give you a minute to wake
up. By the time you have the ammo in your hand, the adrenaline
has kicked in enough to give you hyper focus, so if you yell
“Who’s there” and there’s no answer but other
noise, you’ll know there’s a problem. Many times you
hear of people getting shot by mistake because they had to bust into
their own house, and the broke the window and woke up the husband who
worked third shift and all of a sudden hears his son bustling around
downstairs, but it’s not his son in his mind because the
man’s just woken up, and takes the loaded gun out of the
nightstand – another rule: No nightstands, too close to you
and everyone goes for the nightstand.
“I have to check on something,” I tell her, and head out. I
get into the car. You’re not supposed to drive around with
the gun and the ammo in the same place, bet you didn’t know
that. You’re especially not supposed to drive around with
an S&W .38 on the front seat. Jesus Christ, if I get caught
with this piece – and if some stupid guy peeks in to see it, I am
I drive to the club, only ten minutes away. It’s open 24
hours, provided you have a card key. I have one, it’s red
this year. Last year’s was green and too many people lost
theirs – gun club, green, hunters, camo, think about it. We
decided bright Crayola colors from now on.
Into the gun club I go, and I that is where you would see me now,
sitting at the empty bar with some burbon in a cup, staring at the way
the light hits the S&W and counting the grooves on the side.
Now here’s the problem with suicide by gun – you could
miss. You miss and blow off half your face, now what the
hell’s good about that? You walk around with half your face
blown off. Or you blow out your eye. Or give yourself a
right lobe lobotomy. Most people shoot with their right hand,
pulling the trigger with their thumb, and the kick will pitch your hand
toward the left, meaning the bullet goes right. Now it also
depends on the weight of the gun and how sensitive the trigger is, and
how strong and determined your thumb is. You may change your mind
in the middle of the squeeze, but it’s too damn late if you got a
Now it also doesn’t help that I’m feeling rather buzzed,
and that damn muzzle would look pretty good in my mouth as I would
stare in the mirror and watch myself blow my brains out. Jesus
Christ, what am I thinking. I don’t want to see me shoot
Then the door opens. It’s three in the goddamn morning, who
the hell comes to a shooting range at three in the goddamn
morning. The door just flies open, like some wind hit it. I
pick up the gun and first check if it’s loaded. You dumb
bitch, of course it’s loaded, it’s been loaded since you
brought it out of the house.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
Great. Ghosts talking in my head. Like I need that shit.
Or, hey, maybe it’s God. If that’s the case, I need
something combustible to have Him prove it. Ah, here we are, the
glass of burbon.
“Who’s ‘I am’,” I ask.
Something pools in front of the door, in the light thrown out by the
spots from outside. It’s dark purple and swirling around in
front of me. “This is the easiest of my forms you humans
Whatever. It turns into a column of purple and black smoke.
“I heard your thoughts of death.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re death? Where’s that thing…you know, the long thing…”
“I know not of what you speak.”
I can’t think through the haze of burbon. Do you believe
this shit? Okay, okay… “So who are you?”
“I am called a Nictus. My purpose was to kill.”
“Great. Does it hurt?”
“Does it hurt as much as this?” I hold up the gun.
“I believe it can.”
“So Nick, let me finish this here cup o’ the best burbon in
the house, and then you can stab me through with that…scythe,
that’s what it’s called.”
“You do not understand,” the blob says. “I am a Nictus and I am looking for a human host.”
“Oh, an alien? Great! Do I still die?”
“Not necessarily. I believe you and I can work well
together. I heard your thoughts of murder as well. I can
I narrow my eyes at it. “Are you a boy or a girl?”
“On my world, I would have been the male of my species.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m a girl.”
“That does not matter. What matters is that our thought
patterns match. We match better than my last host.”
He sounds vindictive and angry. Even though I normally
don’t go for guys, this guy’s right up my alley. I
don’t know, today is just screwed up enough that this can just be
added to the screwed-upness. Why not get possessed by an alien,
demon, whatever the hell it is?
“So what do I need to do?”
“Allow me to encompass you. We shall share energy.”
So, holding my pride and joy, I walk up to the purple and black blob and into it.
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