Click Click Clipped Toenails
The first time I did it, I surprised myself.
Lying beneath his cheap, burlap-like sheets the grogginess left and a tidal wave of horror consumed me. I was at a party, I was dancing, and then I was naked in this vile human’s bed peppered with bruises and a screaming headache.
The room spun and it felt like the bed was vibrating. Man, I felt weird. Was I floating or falling?
His phone was buzzing from the floor so I used his unconscious sweaty thumb to unlock it, reading his millions of grotesque texts.
“Hell yeah, dude. Thanks for the pics!” Frank typed.
Pics? I scrolled up and was horrified to discover several alarming photos of myself passed out on a couch with someone’s penis on my face. Nice. I’m gonna guess that revolting piece of flesh belongs to whoever this, uh, Frank person is … thanks for the sweet textspiration, Brosky. I shook my head and sighed through the anger as it slowly seeped through my every pore.
My skin was blazing hot, the rage rising into my throat and settling into the darkest corner of the gruesome dungeon we reserve for our worst selves. Usually, I’m good at keeping the beast in check, but today she’s coming out to play.
The naked savage continued to sleep, belly pressed into the mattress, a sheet loosely draped over his hairy ass. I took a deep breath and embraced the hatred I felt as it blended with new amusement over how stupid this man was to go to sleep.
Under the sink, I found a pair of lilac rubber dishwashing gloves and slid my hands inside. A perfect fit, these were clearly never worn by the dozing monster.
I slid his foot to the edge of the bed and clipped a few toenails, putting them into a used envelope I found on the floor.
I rifled through his hamper and BINGO found a crispy tube sock and stuck it in a Target bag I found crammed between the refrigerator and the counter. I added the envelope of toenails and a pair of filthy boxers.
A grunt, a groan, a sigh as he flipped over and wrapped himself in a zero thread count fabric burrito.
I checked the recycling bin and picked up a couple of empty beer bottles and a take-out spoon he used to eat Greek yogurt earlier. Jesus, he didn’t even lick the spoon clean, almost a half bite of yogurt clinging to the BPA-ridden plastic. Gross.
As I perused the bathroom for more goodies, I stuck a used toothbrush in the bag and pulled a ball of hair from the shower drain. I went to pee, discovered he wasn’t a flusher, and smiled at my luck. An empty cough syrup bottle called out to me and I dipped it into the toilet, wrapped it in paper, and added it to the goody bag. When I looted the medicine cabinet I found a bottle of Xanax and decided to take it with me, but not before I slipped a couple under his lip.
Feeling satisfied, I wrote “Asshole” in Sharpie on the bag so I’d remember whom the treasures belonged to…not that I’d ever forget.
I threw on my clothes, taking note of the torn seams, dirt, and stale beer smell. This dress was a splurge for my birthday yesterday, and now it was ruined like the rest of me. My panties were ripped into one long string and hung sadly on the chair nearby. I picked them up and surveyed the room for any other items of interest.
After tucking the goodie bag and undies into my knock-off Chanel tote and helping myself to one of the Percocets I poached from his nightstand drawer, I climbed out onto the fire escape with his phone.
“Fuck yeah,” I wrote back to Frank, punctuating with a high-five emoji. Man, this guy loves his glittery teenage girl visuals, if I didn’t know better I’d think he was thirteen.
“Sorry she passed out by the time you got her bro, she was fun, she was a fighter,” Frank added a winky face and some gross dirty dancing GIF of a guy in a ruffled tux.
I took a deep breath, captured the scream within me, and formed it into a concrete intention as I exhaled.
According to this guy’s contacts, Frank lived on 18th Street above the deli. Man, I could really go for a sandwich. I must be truly insane to be thinking of food while I plot the fate of these barbarians.
“Order up some subs, I’m coming over with beer.”
“Sweet dude, see you soon.”
I did a thorough sweep of the apartment to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind, wiping down any surface I may have touched with a handy wipe from my bag. I picked up a piece of mail with his name and address conveniently intact, grabbed a couple of full beers from the fridge matching the ones in the trash, snatched a suspicious ski mask off the coffee table, and slid a knife from the woodblock. A perfect set of eight, now with one single, shiny friend missing.
The front door gently closed behind me and I tiptoed down the stairs, feeling the Percocet carrying away the pain of the night as I floated down the street to Frank’s house. I lit a cigarette and delighted in the sensation of the smoke dancing inside my body. Each exhale carried fear away, each nicotine-filled drag filling me with power.
One by one I counted the clicks of my newly scuffed heels, imagining each kiss of the cement as a puncture wound in the body of someone who can’t be mourned as human.
I hit the buzzer, took my last drag through the mouth hole of the balaclava, and flew up the steps with the knife twirling through my fingers. Good lord that sandwich was going to hit the spot.