The date is December 31st, and for Christmas day I was given a laptop, a Dell, for having lived four long years after my confirmed death. Who am I? Well without spoiling my family’s honor, I am a girl from one of those Old Rich families fortunate enough to have maintained their wealth. I live with Rapunzel like hair, blonde and so very long, that rests voluminously past my middle back. I like it very much. I have also suffered a great injury that paralyzed me from the waist down and made me mute, the details of which be censored for I suffered a crime that’d curl a lip on Satan’s dull face. Oh! And of my face! Before the accident and still today it’s been called fair, by at least a few guys besides my father which must mean that it’s actually quite fair since I hear most boys lack the confidence to express themselves honestly, or at least that’s what my old man used to say. I really like your eyes! Your freckles look nice! How do you keep your hair so neat! Those were their judgements. Not that there’d be anything else besides face to judge for the looks of any young thirteen-year-old.
But please forgive my digressive self-admiration. If the narrator needs a name, why not an amusing one like “Wheelchair Girl With The Sins of The Father” or “WheelChair Girl” or “WC” for short. Three names like the Three Musketeers of my personal identity. Now let us move on. I may or may not have an obvious confession. I don’t go out much, which in all honesty should make me a bit deficient as a teller of stories. However even though my life experience never evolved beyond room 336 or wheelchair-assisted “walks” in the courtyard of the hospital, I would still consider myself as having that same well of experience that should make any writer competent: plenty of long silence to solitary confinement and ears primed to listen (for I couldn’t say shut up). See when you can’t walk or talk, people are apt to share many private things about themselves. They don’t even care if your smile is doing its best to touch the earth. They just know that you’re as quiet as a priest at a confessionary booth… which apparently warrants pages of unsolicited life stories.
And really! I have so many life stories to kickstart this writing venture with.
Every Tuesday there’s a real tired looking gentleman who I call Pizza Boy or PB who visits around 10:00 PM after construction shifts. Four kids a part of some entrepreneurial detective agency visit me every Sunday to interrogate me. My Pomeranian dog Whitey has so many tales related to his antics in the courtyard and my room. Though he’s nothing but a plush, he’s such a dearie (Dad never really did like pets).
Oh! Again, please forgive my digressive self-admiration. It’s not productive to talk about the stories to be told rather than actually telling the story. But still, forgive me, all my thoughts are muddled because the “Pizza Boy” (PB) has been late for a good hour and a minute. The time is 11:01 and I haven’t heard a single knock on the door. And it’s all quite worrisome. Not because he’s tardy mind you, but because of the content of our most recent dialogue three weeks ago.
See, we were going through our rounds, the usual routine, a “walk” around the hospital’s courtyard, all gated of course to prevent the more mental patients from running away in negative degree weather, and the cold, found in negative degrees had us dressed in layers (four for him, five for me) and breathing mist like old smokers. That night he was injured. He had a bit of a limp and a few mean cuts on his face. He “walked” me around babbling away in that amusing fashion common to all young men where they have something they want to say, but have a mountain of small talk to dig through first about weather, school, work and national news before dropping the real news about their life.
“I like the snow, but this is too much, and I’m wearing four layers! Can’t we just walk together inside?”
“People will be more mature in college they said. You’ll like college a whole lot more than high school they said. Lies! All lies WC! School is school and I hate it!”
“You know people really like to hate on our President, but you know what? I don’t mind him too much. Sure he’s not really helping me out right now, but it’s kind of mean to just hate someone for trying his best you know.”
“And guess what? For coming in early my boss told me, ‘Well gee thanks kid. I appreciate you and I’m glad you weren’t the load your mama swallowed because now instead of laying concrete for 8 hours you’ll be laying them for 9. Guess that’s a [reputable business school] student for you! Go get digging kiddo!”
He said things like that, ranting with a passion like a man on his fifth shot of Vodka. Except he wasn’t drunk (I could tell from his breath that night which didn’t stink like other nights), he was just naturally of that class of people who grew more insane the more they talked to themselves. And I’ll admit, the content of the guy’s life was pretty boring. Overworked college student with bills to pay and no girl friends to speak of. He lays concrete and frequents a gym. Strong but not big, he had a lithe frame (and dotty stubble) which reflected the toil of his work. However physical fitness for a man’s only a bare minimum for my old-fashioned standards so even though having a substantial amount of muscle may be counted as impressive in our country of gluttons I still saw him as average… which to be granted, made him more than most guys I considered to be less than average. But I’m losing track. Enough criticism. He had a boring life. Nothing on paper would suggest him to be of any worth to one with my station. However, the way he presented his life gave me great joy. Every bit of the mundane was gifted to my feet like pizza in a diamond pizza box because while the content of the delivery was, to be frank, completely plain, the way my favored delivery boy presented that pizza was very rare. I lost count of how many times we circled around and gripped myself to my seat to keep myself from gutturally laughing myself off my chair like a mental fool. If he ever caught me smiling, he never said.
Regardless, I lost track of time and it was a long while before he eventually stopped my wheelchair at the edge of a large fountain decorated with a tall sculpture of St. Raphael. The fountains waters froze in place like crystal waterfalls. Picaresque. PB’s speech trailed off and he finished his story with false enthusiasm, saying, “And then we kicked that guy! And the Big Man choked the other with a log and,” cue quick cut, “yeah that it’s it! We just beat them up WC that’s all.” A few long seconds passed, and after realizing that that was the end, I shuffled in my seat to look back at him as if to say, That’s it! Tell me more!
He looked startled at first, fluttered back one step, and then silently walked around to rub off some snow so he could take a seat on the fountain. Sitting there he was of eye level to me, and it must have been quite the novelty for him to stare into me like so, illuminated by the full moon, for he tugged at his coat nervously while darting his eyes around like fleas before letting them settle on me from which he kept staring from his seat on the fountain, breathing wispy mist out like a stalking predator or one whose mind was in tumult over what to say next. I half expected a proposal, but I quickly changed my mind on that amusement because while there have been many confessions I’ve been burdened to listen to, there were few where one looked me in the eye, and none that could compare to the concern I felt for him that week. For my friend looked very grave, very sad, and utterly repentant like a man on death row. I rolled my chair forward and took a very worried expression for myself to say, —— are you okay? We can go inside if you need to.
“Remember that time first met? One year ago. You ever remember anything off about me that day?”
I nodded my head.
Yes I very much do PB. You made a very good courier that first night we met. Right on the dot, you almost ran into the door.
“Figures WC. Yelling ‘Aye, aye, aye!’ as you spin through the door to prevent yourself from tripping and dropping the pizza makes an impression I guess. Must have been some impression as well, since you hardly write me by my actual name. Pizza Boy this, Pizza Boy that. Would it ever hurt you to call me ——?”
I put a hand up to my mouth and silently laughed. Then I made that “make the money rain” kind of motion found in gentleman’s clubs to as if to say, You should have kept delivering pizza! I gave decent tips! Enough to pay for your hospital bills. Lord, you looked very burnt and beat up during the second delivery you made.
He hid his face away and chuckled like an idiot aloof. Then he said, “What are you doing WC? I have no idea what you’re trying to say. Well anyways. You’d already know I quit delivering pizza and quit taking your tips pretty early on. Thank you again by the way for giving me enough rent to quit my job and study so I wouldn’t drop out of college. But back then I sold you some lame excuse about manly pride and how I wanted to become a strong guy by picking up a new job like construction work. Well I actually got that job laying concrete. That bit is true.” He took a short breath and spoke more quickly after, the rate of words sped like an open crescendo. “But I didn’t quit working at that pizza place because it felt beneath me. I’d take your tips every week you know? Actually I’d deliver to you even without the tips, since I find these talks sanctifying! I like talking with you WC! You know I—Ah geez. Christ. Lord this ain’t an easy thing to admit. Already scared as I am. Ah—”
He started mumbling and got hard to hear. So, I rolled my chair close, within kicking distance, almost to the point where by boots could touch his. I tried kicking him, but then I remembered I was paralyzed by the waist down, so I karate chopped his shoulder instead.
—— speak louder!
Our eyes met again and he seemed to almost jump from his seat. But he held my gaze, and his cheeks flushed as I brushed the snowflakes off his shoulders. I wanted to sing, to whisper, “——, you’re doing fine. Quit being so nervous!” But that part of my brain was gone, so instead I smiled softly, and gave him a stiff thumbs up with my mittened hands.
He stared at me long, with a tilted head at first, his beanie slightly crooked, then with understanding as he straightened himself up. Pizza Boy laughed, smiled, and then with a great boldness I had never seen before, he took off his gloves, stretched his arm out, tore my hat off, and then began petting my hair with both hands. My hair! Nobody but me, Father, nor my friends from the old academy ever pet my hair, and yet there he was, petting it with his urchin hands, combing it through the strands with his dirty, cement-worked fingers, twirling it, tousling my golden hair as if he were brushing a poodle! See, on one hand I was delighted because it made me feel feminine, attractive per say to have been so alluring like a siren to make my quack of a friend lose all consciousness. On the other hand, I wanted to have him sleeping with the fishes for even daring. First he’s telling stories, then he’s nervous trying to confess something, and now he’s tugging my hair like a preschooler while smiling and laughing and saying laughable things like my name, “There, there ——,” or compliments to my “put together” hair all while twisting said “put together” hair into a tangled mess! It was so sudden, and it had me confused, so confused. Should I push him away? Should I roll back? Inside I’m screaming, but what the heck would I wanted him to stop? Do I want him to stop? Would he stop? Lord’s sake, I’m a girl in a wheelchair who can’t say no! Good thing I don’t want to say no! Do I like this or do I not? See, and I can only admit this here, Pizza Boy got my heart revved up to 179 mph!
In the past, I had many suitors, but they were all gentle, gentle gentlemen. They were boring. They talked politics. They talked about their sports. They talked business where manners dictated that you politely laugh at their calculated jokes. They didn’t make me laugh like Pizza Boy, who could go raving mad about something boring like weather or laying concrete. They never once caused me to laugh so hard that my ribs actually hurt. That is to say, I don’t like Pizza Boy. No, no, I don’t like him. I don’t. But I was ok with him, more so than other guys, and since I was ok with him, he had me really, really confused on what to do when he pet my hair. Eventually, he ran out of compliments to say, and his rough petting became more gentle as he put one hand away to his pocket and started to move the other hand back and forth across the top of my head with a steady rhythm. I found it soothing and for a long while I held my eyes wide, not in anticipation for anything of course (though I wouldn’t have minded). Then he stopped petting me and grabbed my shoulders, pulling me to him so that I came close to him. I took a short breath as he leaned forward. Then he stopped, and I felt his misty breath on my face. At that point I had stopped thinking. He was the only thing in my eyes which mattered… since well that’s something that naturally happens when a person’s face gets a breath’s width away from yours. I felt absolutely exalted. Exalted right up until he said,
“WC, you’re this is going to sound completely mad. But I am a hitman, and you’re a target of mine.”
And he was right! He was mad! And I was mad! Scratch that. I am mad! Because what sounded like a cheesy pick-up line then was enough cause for me to grab his head to kiss him anyways! Suppose I could call it my voiceless thanks, my way of saying “Thanks for keeping me company on lonely nights." That was the feeling then, and not to praise myself over a first kiss, but I’d say he liked it. He really liked it, for when I let him go, he bent back a bit like a pendulum, thrown back into his own mind for a few seconds before facing me again with a big smile on his face.
“Oh what the hell. WC I—”
I grabbed him by the neck and cut him short. I wrestled him, or rather he allowed himself to be wrestled to the ground. And, for long while we… ahhm… forgive me I do get rather heated wondering what came over myself then. What’s the term for it? I didn’t go so far as to… ahhm… really, really know him. But it was somewhere between that spectrum of pecking kisses and outright… that. For a humorous description between peck, smooch, and slurrrp, I had his face and neck and everything above his scapula… ehmm… slurrrped. Lord forgive me, I probably would have kept going if Pizza Boy didn’t have a shot of conscience to push me off and yell, “Ahhh! Darn it all! Darn it all! Damn it!” Something in him cracked. His eyes were wet and he stumbled back towards the fountain as he stood up. He looked like a man at the end of his rope, set for death row without a conscience at peace. He spoke like one also, spilling his regret.
“I am no hitman WC. Well scratch that. Technically, I am one, but I am not a hitman by trade! I technically am though because some people hired me for job when I was desperate. You actually are my target.”
So drats. I really did… ah… slurrrp the guy who was supposed to kill me. He had a very manic look in his eyes, like a dog with rabies. Meanwhile I didn’t know what to think, whether to flee or fight. God knows how much I could have done with my disability, but I lost my choice in regards to matters of flight when he walked over, put his arms under my elbows, and lifted me from the snow into an embrace where I was held tightly against his chest. He threw me back into my wheelchair, brought me back to the fountain, and while seated at its edge, rolled me in close to hear his story.
“Normal people don’t take contracts to kill people. You’ve got to be cold, callous. You’ve got to have some itch at the world, you’d have to want to destroy it, to burn it to ash for causing all your despair. Despair’s a sin, you know that WC? God made it so. Because when you fall to that sin, it feeds into other sins, and you feel you can’t climb back out without doing other sin. I didn’t care. I was in a dark place. Do you know what it’s like to roam this city? To walk as bones shiver and turn to ice? To smell like the rats, have people shy away from you, and walk by a river you can’t wash yourself in because those same people, in their fancy clothes and boots keep dumping their own bowels into it? I was ready to take the plunge! People always say there’s hiring signs everywhere. But guess what? Here’s the plot twist. I did get a job! I turned my life around after a week-long lease in the sidewalks and I still smelt like a skunk! They were right you know, but they were also wrong. My parents were right, but they were also wrong. Those guys still on the streets can make it. They can be praised for doing the right thing, getting a job. I got a job delivering pizza, but what did that get me? An apartment, some food, bread, chicken, chips, everything I’d ever need to live, but not everything I’d ever need to make me feel alive.
“But woe to man, and sometimes I ask God, why’d he make man so greedy. I went from rich to broke to being slightly less broke. I had food and a shelter from the rain and cold. What did I think? My first instinct? My first thoughts? Man my clothes suck. Man do I stink. How am I going to get hotties when the best clothes I have are my uniforms from Dominoes which also stink. Why is deodorant so expensive? Why is the water bill so long? Why does every chicken wing in this city cost an arm and a leg? Money, I sort of have, savings I sort of have, but I did the math and it’d take about 20 years for me to buy a good car without loans. See WC, there are some people who don’t have houses. See there are some people who don’t have food. Me? I had both and yet I still wanted more. Fifty years delivering pizza? Have some pride ——! You can do better. You were an A student weren’t you? I am sorry Ma. I am sorry Pa. I never should have run away. I am sorry Ma and Pa for being a prideful snob. I’m not going to live on your money! Quit paying and taking loans out for a tuition we can’t pay for! Dad! Ma! You work so many hours. How much are you willing to let my life siphon more of yours? I don’t want to be a burden. I left them. I ran away. But now I want to do better, and I know I can do better. I’d ask for your help, I’d go to college, but then I’d be going against my word. I’d be taking a loan out for college. I’d make you both work more overtime. I told you both I’d be fine without you guys. I’d find my own way without relying on you all. I’m an adult. I’ll make money. I’ll get a job. I’m sure living as the people do, on so and so dollars a day, in a small apartment that you barely manage to pay each month, mostly working every hour each month won’t be so hard right? Well WC, it was hard. I had it hard. You’re free as a hobo, but beaten by the elements. You put yourself in chains to rent yourself a shelter, but you’re stuck working for somebody else’s dream. I hated that. Working for someone else’s dream and not my own. I hated the thought of becoming a burden to my parents. I wanted to get my education, but I wanted to free my parents of me more. You don’t know how painful it is. Seeing your mother, with a poor stump for a leg, getting up at 5 AM every morning to make breakfast and go to assembly for your sake. You don’t know what it’s like to hear the phone ring every day for a year, and then to pick up after a year to hear them say, ‘---- I’m so glad to hear about that job you’ve got. We’re coming over to visit and celebrate!’ And then actually have them visit, and see them burst through the door with a whole slot of groceries, expensive kinds like my favorite rib-eyed steaks and to take their gifts, and to hear them say ‘Happy Birthday ----!’realizing one, you forgot your birthday, and two, that even in poverty you still serve as their greatest burden! Christ’s sakes, is a job delivering pizza really worth celebrating? They still work for you WC! My parents, I was still a burden to them even when I was trying not to be! Obviously, I took their gifts. We had a grand time. But it was there I knew. In that one room flat there were three people, all poor, and nothing had changed as a result of my choices. I tried so hard to do the right thing for them and I failed.
“And, you could bet that when some time after, some strange guys in suits came by to pay the rest of my… well everything: tuition so I could start my freshman year at college, bills, housing, all that to kill some girl in a hospital bed… well I jumped that opportunity right away! I mean… how hard could it be to kill someone who couldn’t walk! No, wait that’s wrong. Everything’s wrong! What kind of guy would even accept a contract like that? I don’t think I was screwed right in the head. And you know, you know. My first thought when they opened that brief case, that whole lot of money? ‘I’m gonna be free! I’m going to be a free man.’ Key word, I’m. Did I think of my parents? A little bit. But I thought of myself a whole lot more WC, and I want to go to Hell for that. See, my first thought, my first thought… when I first saw you, I thought, ‘Wow. I could strangle this girl easy.’ I also thought your smile was cute. But I also thought I could have strangled you easy and I want to go to Hell for that! I couldn’t do it. You were too pitiable. In your own way, you were very sanctifying. When I brought that pizza in you invited me to stay, and I stayed. ‘Only to figure out what kind of person I was killing,’ I told myself. You brought out your whiteboard. I did my best not to laugh. Never in my life did I expect to speaking to an actual mute on a whiteboard. Everything about our first meeting was so surreal to me WC. But here’s the worst part WC. The worst part! I didn’t do it because I felt bad about you or nothing. I mean I still felt bad about you, but not bad enough to have kept me from killing you. No, the worst thing about me is that I wouldn’t kill you because I could never figure out how to do it without getting caught! That first meeting, throughout it all I was trying to figure out how to end your life. And now, and now I can’t tell… I can’t tell. I don’t know whether I spared you because I couldn’t do it… or because I didn’t want to… and I want to go to Hell for wanting to hurt you, ——. ——, everything is so wrong. My mind’s a mess. What if… what if there are others? Others besides myself sent to hurt you? By God, they gave me two years to do it! It’s been about two years. ——, I am sorry. I should have told you earlier. Those men at the site… no those guys at the site. I am sorry ——.”
His speech choked. He let go of my shoulders. Tears he’d try to keep in check began to pour through the dam as he cried the kind of crying that comes from a lamentable revelation. He started off in mania and ended in despair. He was hired to kill me. He was allotted a period of time to kill me which had passed. They, whoever they were, were going to hire someone else to kill me, or had already done so. And to top it off, the target he was supposed to kill had become reciprocal to a feeling right at a moment in time where he would have been soon to lose her. A lamentable revelation indeed. To have gained something so pleasant only to lose it to forces beyond your control like bloomed flowers to the sudden storms of Spring. And while there was much to process from his confession, I felt more attuned to his remorse than I did the content of his words. I cared not for the business of men, of hitmen and blood feuds, and secret contracts. I cared not for the fact that —— was hired to kill me. I didn’t care how he talked about giving thought to my assassination upon our first meeting. No, I didn’t care at all about such horrendous things, especially not when he was crying through tears saying, ‘I am sorry ——. I am sorry ——,” uttering my name. So, call me innocent if you like. Call me too kind if you like. I didn’t care. My good friend was crying, and seeing him cry made me feel like crying. I can’t perform much speech, but I could still cry. Tears streamed down my face, seeing my friend so down. I hugged him close to me and cried.
“——, It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Nothing changed. You did the right thing. Away with sins of the mind! You didn’t kill me. I am here right now. You are fine. I am fine. I really like you. Please be happy. Don’t cry like this. My father has means. I’ll write to him, and he’ll protect me, as he did before. Please, I am not so easily killed my friend. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here without a voice. I wouldn’t be here trying to console you, to comfort you. So please. Please. You aren’t a murderer ——. I am sorry ——. I am sorry ——. I wish I could say something, but I can’t. So please. Please! Please be content with how I am! I am pretty yes, but O God how can a man fall in love with a girl who can’t walk or speak! Thank you ——! Thank you —— for making my days so bright! Selfish I know for me to want you when there’s people who’d serve you better. But know that I really like you ——. So please. I am sorry ——. I am sorry ——. I can’t say anything that’ll make you stop crying! So please. Please! Let me hug you close to me and be happy! You thought you did me wrong, but no ——! You made me right! You saved me —— when I was sad!”
That’s what I would have said if I could. But no, guess when you don’t have a voice you can only be content with crying. Now I know what the reader may be thinking? Why not draw in the snow? My answer, besides frostbitten fingers? Look at the speech above. A single sentence drawn in the snow doesn’t mean much. The contents of a kiss, through writing, is expressed through many paragraphs, the tower of Babel in lettered forms. Why give the writing when you really mean to give the kiss? Love letters, they pale in comparison to the actions which they try to represent: the songs, the kisses, the sweet-nothings that a person can say and do. I confess, I hate writing; on desktop, on paper, on whiteboard. I hate those who took my voice. I used to love singing. Now, I cannot. I could have told my friend all I wrote here. Because of them, I can not. But I am going off topic. It’s no use to lament to the point of crying during your authorship.
Because let me tell you. Have you ever had a sad kiss? I’ve had one. I gave plenty. They’re the kind you give in an attempt to make someone happy where you think, “Maybe if we both shared these things to each other we’d make happiness over our sadness?” However, they’re also given while you yourself are crying and the person you want to make happy is crying. We were both crying when I finally sprung myself in a frenzy off my chair, clasped my hands around his neck, and planted one long, sad kiss on Pizza Boy’s lips, the kind that swallowed, the kind where you breathe in, breath in to tug a person’s soul close to yours as tight as you possibly can. I let him go to breathe. In that moment of breath he mumbled something like “This is so wrong ——.”
I silenced his protest with another proper, sad kiss. I held as long as I could, almost breathing his air as my own before I let him go to take another breath. He protested again to say, “Wait ——. What are you—Mrmph!”
I interrupted him again with another one. And more, upon more so that he wouldn’t have time to complain. When he could no longer complain, he began to cry in his eyes for I held his voice captive. When he began to cry in his eyes, I licked the tears away. When he cried from his mouth, I returned to kissing him. I alternated in that way, and kissed him those kisses that said more than what I write here, much more than here times a thousand. The snow nor cold had no hindrance upon me. I only felt his warmth and he only felt mine. My savior, the person who brought me light and laughter, and funny stories when all my life was dark after the accident. I wouldn’t allow him to be unhappy, to make me cry! Who cares if he was hired to rob my life! He gave me my life! And I was willing to submit my life to him. After some time, I began stabbing my mittened hand towards the hospital.
Let us continue where it’s warm.
My eyes, between the tears and moonlight must’ve looked quite inviting because Pizza Boy smiled. He quit crying and relented to my will. Finally, romance without words, free from ridiculous things like letters and whiteboards, we communicated something important. My life! My life! It was his, and his mine!
He picked me up, put me on my chair, and rolled me back to my room, kissing me all the way, without a hint of shame. He didn’t even care about the strangers in the elevator. They all looked away. After the door closed, he undressed me, all while kissing my lips in a manic frenzy. He took my hat off, then all my jackets off so that only my shirt and jeans were left. Then he princess carried me to my bed, kissed me more by the bedside, began laughing maniacally a typical joker’s laugh of his and said, “Excuse me ——. This is going to sound really funny, but I’ve got to go to the bathroom before we start.”
He clasped my hand tightly. “Really ——. You’re a special girl. And just because you can’t say it. I’ll say it. I love you, and I’m glad I met you. So stick tight here. I’m gonna be back, and we’ll continue. Just you wait -——.”
He laughed mightily on his way out. Keeping his jacket on. Actually now that I think about it he kept his jacket on… the entire time.
Ah curse that bandit! Cursed everything that he stands for! The hitman! The construction worker! That poor minimum wage Pizza Boy who made me feel love then and anger now!
Ah… excuse me. Let me recount what happened after he closed the door. He left! I made so much effort kissing him, loving him like any maiden would, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse and he left! He refused me and left! That rat left me dawdling under the sheets dreaming of his return! I was laid there staring at the ceiling for a good hour! Imagining his face there, in mine while we … oh, I was going to describe my anger then but let me describe my anger now. Because oh Lord, he kept his jacket on the entire time. He never meant to stay at all! That Pizza Boy! I should have saw it then. He never meant to accept my offer! But why not! I’m so cute! I’m so lovely! My hair is gorgeous! Is it not gorgeous enough for him? Well, he rubbed it through his fingers for like thirty minutes or more that night so clearly yes! Did I not kiss him well enough? No, that’s ridiculous. No man as terrible with women like he would ever forget the way I handled him that night. Don’t tell me. Is he actually good with women? Does he have a mistress from university he hasn’t told me about? Is he Don Juan? Don Pizza Boy? Am I just another passing love for his fancy? I have no legs, but I’ll get that old blood running again and stab him. I will! I’ll stab him if he even dares to have a mistress when he has me! That man, he has left me dreaming every night for the past three weeks, and a full month has now passed since he visited. This is the fourth Tuesday and he’s got me staying up late for him waiting for his return like Solomon’s girl. Well here’s the thing! Pizza Boy isn’t Solomon and he isn’t Don Juan! He had his night to love, and he blew it! He offended me beyond great measure. When he comes back to continue, there will be no continuance of what we had that night. What kind of man spurns someone who gave that kind of therapy on a night like that.
Ah… what is wrong with me. All these complaints about Pizza Boy written here and it’s all related to… goodness me. What is wrong with him? What is wrong with me? Don’t tell me. He accepted a contract to kill me on behalf of my enemies, and I am not even angry about it. I am angry about the fact that he… ah… no matter. Yes, he blew it. Yes, I was willing to do… that with him that night. That I confess to God, so I ask for forgiveness for all the anger that I hold towards him. Pizza Boy is not at fault.
The fault is all mine. So let it be said that ——, I use the dashes to substitute our real names which is something important in this case, there shall be no fling of that sort with —— until marriage.
Yes, Pizza Boy had his chance. Now he has to court me to ever have a night like that again. Courtship! Yes! A return to the old-fashion passed through my lineage to me. That night was only a moment of weakness. A passing fancy! Hah! I’m gonna write to him the moment he bursts through this door! “——. Forgive me for being so forward. Forgive me for that night. If we’re going to love like that, we’d need to have an engagement. You’d have to marry me!”
So, see you soon Pizza Boy, from WC. Beh.
Such was the letter written by the WC of this peculiar tale. Hello. You weren’t expecting an actual narrator now? No matter. There are many tales best concluded in a third-person format. How else are we supposed to know the names of these two inexplicable people or detail what happens next after our noted WC writes “Beh” in that common style among lazy writers who would end with a “So yeah that’s it” if they had opportunity to become lazy orators. But no worries about long-winded conclusions. We’ll be done shortly, as most of the good bits of this tale are already finished from WC’s work. If one actually preferred the names PB and WC, do forgive me for breaking the mystery.
The writer who calls herself WC is what a father named Rosa. A kind name, for a highly murderous person (in the figurative). The details about herself under the name of WC are accurate, so no further elaboration here is required.
Who the writer calls PB is what two parents with the last name of Wolfe named Jack. A common name, which ironically through its commonality among the American populace has become a name synonymous with the extraordinary due to the frequency of Jacks being able to find themselves in extraordinary situations. The Jack our writer Rosa laments about is not excluded from this phenomena. Jack’s sob story is accurate, so no further elaboration here is required.
Jack and Rosa. Those are the two names that will be put to use in the events that follow. Here’s what happened as Rosa typed that final “Beh” into her computer and smashed her pretty little head into her poor keyboard who no doubt didn’t like getting its keys smashed by pretty heads. Through all convention of sensible endings, the end of this tale is probably something any person sharp in the head could figure out.
Jack, our Jack Wolfe the contract killer, dressed in suit and tie, burst through the door and staggered into Rosa’s room heaving for breath like one off a sprint. He also wore a pair of black dress gloves. Rosa, dressed in her nightgown, had in the interim between her head to keyboard smashings gasped as she saw our Jack, her Jack, dressed handsomely in a suit and tie. The man closed the door behind him.
She quickly brushed her hair away to clear her face and thought, “Jack! Jack dressed in a suit and tie! Suit and tie! That urchin in a suit and tie! Why is he dressed so handsomely! His suit is black. His shirt is white. His tie is red. Such class. Such style. How can a pizza delivery boy have the audacity to look so stylish? Oh dear! I’m so happy! Oh Lord why so out of breath? Did the man run up the stairs or something? Wait a second. I’m supposed to be angry.”
And Rosa was right, she was supposed to be angry! Her pizza boy was completely ridiculous. What kind of man makes a promise only to break it? To which Rosa already had her answer, every man when playing games of romance. But see, according to Rosa’s great wisdom, the promises between Jack and herself were totally different. No light promise! The offer that no man could refuse in her mind. So, she donned her angry face. She puffed her cheeks and gave a mean stare, like a puppy, with adorable meanness that emits more feelings of affection than confrontation. Rosa was also blushed pink from ear to ear, but Jack was kind enough not to give it any mention as he walked over, pulled up a chair, and sat down at her bedside. From her nightstand, Rosa grabbed her white Pomeranian plush and hugged her face into it. Jack took notice of the laptop, still open to Rosa’s journal entry. He closed it softly with a soft click, and set it aside on the nightstand where Rosa’s whiteboard also lay. He moved his hand to grab the board, but decided he wouldn’t need it, and instead moved his hand, gloves still on, to pet Rosa’s hair. Rosa, still wanting to be angry, slapped his hand away the second it touched her head. Slightly hesitant, Jack tapped his black dress shoes. Some awkward seconds passed while Jack fumbled through his pockets of his suit.
After about twenty clicks of the clock, Rosa, her face still stuffed into the white fur of her large dog plush, felt her hand lift away from Whitey’s fur, then something cold and metallic slip onto her finger. She raised her head to find a golden ring there, an economical thing bought only by the most frugal of suitors, or what she’d have liked to call utter cheapskates by her high standards. It appeared that her suitor had slipped it on, and that she had let him. Rosa cried and Jack, a bit startled, started speaking.
“Rosa! Wait! Are you not happy? Shake your head if ‘no.’ Nod if ‘yes.’”
Rosa nodded, then shook her head.
“Wait, what! You change your mind?”
Rosa shook her head.
“So, you’re happy?”
Rosa nodded.
“And you’re sad.”
Rosa nodded.
“Can I kiss you to cheer you up?”
Rosa paused for a bit and looked deeply into the eyes of her assailant. She didn’t think about how there was no notification from her nurse about her late-night visitor, who mysteriously snuck through all hospital security. She didn’t send a thought to the smell of fresh blood on his person, a smell she should have been familiar with. She didn’t think about how he mentioned during his confessions that he only didn’t fulfill his contract to kill because he couldn’t figure out how to kill her. Suffice to say, love had made her blind in all five senses. Perhaps those million questions starting with “Oh my! Why are you so X, X, and X” should have been uttered. Rosa nodded her head. “Yes Jack. A million times yes,” she mouthed before Jack swallowed her up.
And… suffice to say, perhaps it’s a good thing that love makes all people blind. Jack Wolfe had his gloves on to hide fingerprints, a pencil sharp as a spear tucked under his suit, and a ring in his breast pocket. He had all those things because love makes confusion. Enough for a contract killer, who originally with all intentions to fulfill their contract, ends up side-tracked on a road leading to Heaven rather than Hell. Love is what makes a wolf fall for prey. It’s what causes a wolf to go off the track, to leave the pack willingly to save money from their part-time job for a black suit, red tie, and golden ring all while planning a thousand “what if’s” in regards to the hunt. What if my quarry said no? What if my quarry said yes? Doesn’t matter. The mark has no choice. It’s either marriage or marriage or death or death. Ah, the poor nature of the girls to submit to another’s mercy.
Rosa… suffice to say had no choice at all and was swallowed up as she was that fated week. Jack Wolfe got his little Rosa and little Rosa got her Jack Wolfe.
So happy tidings from this curious author to his curious readers! There was no punchline! They drove to the church in a dented sedan and got married at 2:00 AM. At 7:00 AM the sun rose on an empty hospital room. One note addressed to “the kids” was left there. The next day, the paper, updated on all happenings within the city locale, had the following headline printed at the top: Stabbing on Hams Avenue: Six Dead Men found in dumpster outside O Claire’s Hospital.