Fantasies

The bell above the door rings as I shoulder my way into the coffee shop. I walk up to the counter but I have to wait to order. Two women are standing there, looking up at the board with the menu; they’re taking ages to choose and my leg jumps up and down involuntarily while I wait. I already know what I’m getting (the same every day); an espresso, double shot, no sugar, no milk. When I finally get to order the lady behind the counter looks at me with a bored expression.

“What can I get you?” she asks in a monotone voice that tells me she’d rather be anywhere else. She’s chewing a piece of gum and opening her mouth too wide; the sticky sound as her teeth clench and unclench around it makes my leg tap the ground harder. I inhale slowly through my nose.

“Double shot espresso.”

“I’m afraid our coffee machine is currently broken,” she reels off as if she’s said that sentence a hundred times today. “Can I offer you a hot chocolate, tea or lemonade? Our flavours are-”

“Hot chocolate’s fine,” I reply curtly. She turns around, obviously annoyed, and makes my order. When she opens a jar of sugar, I quickly say,

“Without sugar please,” but it’s too late because she’s already poured a teaspoon in. 

“Sorry,” she says, in the opposite of an apologetic voice. She turns around and hands me the paper cup. A bit of my hot chocolate sloshes over the edge and drips onto the counter. My leg keeps tapping against the floor. Somebody behind me in the queue sighs. Then the woman gives me this counterfeit, syrupy smile - there’s a bit of red lipstick on her teeth that irritates me perhaps more than anything else.

“Have a nice day,” she simpers. In one swift motion, I step forward, grab her by her atrociously bleached hair, and slam her face down onto the counter. I yank up and smash it down again, just to hear that satisfying crack for a second time. Blood drips all over the counter and onto the floor; I pull her back up so I can see it gushing from her nose and split forehead.

I blink and her smooth, very much unharmed face sharpens before me. I take a step back and wish her a good day too. As I walk out of the door, the bell gives another antagonising chime. I toss my sugary hot chocolate into a trash can.

***

It seems to be a day of malfunctioning technology, because the air conditioning at my work has broken down. It’s insufferably hot as I sit at my desk. My shirt collar is strangling me, and tugging at it makes it worse. I can feel the beads of sweat trickling down my back like the warm, unwanted touch of fingers trailing down my back. 

“Davidson.” I look up sharply as my boss leans over my desk. “Have you got that report for me?” She’s wearing a dress with heeled boots. Her thighs look supple, like butter, and I wonder if they would be sliced as easily as butter if I put a knife to them. My attention snaps back to her question.

“Not yet, I haven’t got the right paperwork from Jones, so I can’t write it up.” Her long, manicured nails tap on my desk impatiently like I’m a school child.

“Well, get it from him. I need it by tomorrow, Quentin. You’ll have to work overtime tonight.” She walks off, heels clicking. 

I shake my head to clear it. Then I stand up and walk over to Jones’s desk; I hate his desk because the clutter spills over all four edges, and sometimes he leaves food there that moulds under his paperwork.

“Hi,” I say quietly. Jones is playing some sort of video game on his computer involving cars. He looks up after a second as if it takes physical effort for him to move his eyes.

“Queertin,” he guffaws at the nickname even though he uses it every day. “Whaddoyouwant?” 

I take a pen from his pen holder and stick it into the side of his neck, right into the jugular vein, until the blood spurts out like a pretty red fountain. The thought calms me down and I take a deep breath before replying:

“The paperwork. For that tax report that’s due tomorrow?” 

“Huh? Oh that. Might be somewhere in there.” He gestures vaguely to a mountain of stray papers and folders. Sighing, I begin to sift through the pile tentatively. As I slide my hand under a stack, it touches something moist and I jerk back.

“I can’t do this,” I mutter, and go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

I get off work at nine p.m. but I don’t want to return to my empty apartment. I buy a beer in a convenience store instead and go to the park that’s near my flat. At this time in the evening it’s usually quiet, excluding a couple of junkies loitering on the benches or the local teenagers smoking on the swings. I stroll at a leisurely pace, taking slow swigs from the bottle. The world seems soft around the edges, and I tilt my head back to look at the stars. If I ignore the sound of an occasional car passing, it’s almost as if I’m alone in the woods. Slowly, I forget about the broken coffee machine and the sickly smile and the sweltering office and even Jones. A sort of fragile, misty peace has occupied my mind and stays there, floating.

The sudden impact of something crashing into me sends a wave of shock through my body and shatters my peace. I look up to see a boy on a skateboard; he’s collided with me, causing my beer to tip up and spill all over my suit and briefcase. 

“Oh shit, sorry.” He looks earnest but the drunk giggling takes away from it a little. I look him up and down; he’s scruffy, with a beanie on his curly hair and a black septum piercing hanging from his nose. 

“D’you need help? I have some tissues - somewhere-” he’s patting his pockets.

“No need,” I reply tersely, already wiping up the beer. My tissues can’t remedy the stickiness of my shirt, which is clinging uncomfortably to my chest.

“A’ight. Sorry again.” The way he shortens those two words, “all right,” irks me for some reason. He turns and walks off, skateboard in hand. I notice his gate is a little unsteady; he’s heading away from the park and to the streets. I decide to follow him. Fortunately, he chooses an ill-lit, narrow alley, where if I’m careful to be quiet, he won’t notice me. 

We’re both swallowed by the darkness of the street, and I keep some distance behind him. Every once in a while, the skateboard he’s carrying scrapes against the ground. I pick up my pace so the distance between us narrows, my shadow touching his heels. My body feels filled with unused energy, the blood cells in my veins buzzing. My eyes close in on a broken metal pipe lying on the edge of the street and I feel it must be a sign for it to be placed just there at this very moment. I flex my fingers; I can feel all the pent up inaction inside me, longing to be let out. My mind is clear and sharp. 

In a moment of sudden decisiveness, I step forward, making a grab for the metal pipe, then one of my hands clamps down over the boy’s mouth and pulls him towards me - I pull my the arm holding the pipe back, like a quiver being loaded, and bring it down with the force of all today’s pent up anger; it connects with his temple with a delicious, sickening crack that sends a thrill through my body. Immediately, the boy crumples and I hold his dead weight in my arms.

Bringing him to my apartment is more difficult than I thought and I’m huffing as I drag him up the stairs, his legs bumping at each step, and unlock the door. I didn’t meet anybody on the way here, but I wasn’t worried by that thought; I knew I wouldn’t.

Splayed out on my wooden floorboards, the boy looks quite undeniably dead - there’s even a dent in his temple where I struck him - but I give him a couple more blows just to make sure. When I stop, my heart is racing and I think this is how figure skaters must feel when they land an axel or how an author must feel when they finish a book. So I strike a couple more times and tell myself it’s to make really, really sure that he won’t wake up. 

Suddenly I’m not sure what to do with the body - he was more interesting while warm and breathing, now he’s just a thing taking up space in my apartment. His skin has lost its pinkness and his legs are resting in a stiff, unnatural position. Eventually, I pick him up under the armpits and drag him over to the closet that holds my shirts. I have to balance him on one arm as I open the creaky door - then I heave him inside, letting him fall heavily onto the ground in a crumpled heap. As I close the cupboard, my mind wanders back to a scene from a kid’s movie I watched a long time ago - Tangled - where Rapunzel shoves some man’s body into her cupboard but he keeps falling out. My body stays obediently inside my cupboard. Everything is silent and I realise that tonight has really tired me out, so I decide to go to bed. I don’t even change out of my beer-stained suit, the only thing I have time for is to wash my hands because some of the boy's blood has stained my fingers, then I fall into bed.

***

When I awake, the first thing I smell is the beer that’s dried on my shirt. A few washed-out rays of sunlight creep their way into my room through the window. I sit up and remember my extravagant fantasy from last night, much more thought-out than they usually are, and I go over the details as I stand up, unbutton my shirt and carry it to the washing machine. I get that feeling I usually have after one of my scenarios, like waking up from a good dream and realising none of it was real. But as I shut the washing machine and turn it on, a whiff of something reaches me, seemingly coming from my hands. I put my palms to my nose and sniff - it’s a metallic smell, and I know what it reminds me of. But that’s impossible, because last night I didn’t really pick up a metal pipe, or strike a boy’s head with it, or get his blood on my hands. Last night I followed him for a little while down a dark alley and then went home. So why the smell? I must have touched something rusty, that must be it.

Still, there’s a strange, nagging feeling at the back of my mind, and although it’s stupid I decide to indulge it and check the closet. In the hall, my heart begins to race as I spot a stain on the floorboards, but then I remember that I spilled coffee there last week. As I step towards the cupboard, I notice the house is filled to bursting with silence, and only my breathing tears through the eerie quiet. As I reach out for the handle of the closet door, my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, as if I’m in a video game, watching a second pair of hands that aren’t really mine. I press the handle down. I feel light-headed, but I keep telling myself there’s no reason to. 

The door swings open with that familiar creak. My eyes fall to the closet floor… 

I choose a different coffee shop today, because I don’t want to risk the coffee machine at my usual place still being broken.