Pink charmies, last Showings and killer callings

I whisper, "Well?" 

You shift your hand on the armrest of the theater's box seats—the best seats in the house—and pull your gaze away from the screen. "What?"

"The last showing at the cinema. What do you think?"

Another scene comes on, and you hold your breath. Scenes like this tend to catch you off guard. You watch the needle piercing in and out of the skin, and you murmur, "But how could he?" 

I don’t quite understand what you mean. Like…is it supposed to be difficult? That kind of finesse—I’m good at it, too. In tenth grade, I made all those tiny stage dolls for the school play. The drama teacher couldn’t believe those delicate stitches were mine.

I wasn’t too surprised. I tend to look more oblivious, more innocent, and more naive than I actually am, but I’m just simple enough that I can trust my teammates with optimism and a big smile to catch me during my acrobatic jumps in the middle of the game while I’m twirling the flag in my colorful outfit, and I can also see the entire anatomy of their bodies with all the tiny details of the nerves on the only white (non-pink) wall of my room without the smallest trace of a smile when no one is watching me.

“It's cool. Really. Kinda mysterious."

As the next scene appears, you chuckle quietly and remember to answer my question. Honestly, it's always like this. Out of all the messages and all the questions, you only ever answer one. If you remember.

I breathe out in relief. "So now you agree that the last showing isn’t really when killers come to watch movies. You’ve been spooked for nothing, all these years."

The movie ends, and we get up, in our pajamas, one hand a little greasy from fresh buttered popcorn, heading toward the car in the cool midnight air.

I start singing: “Midnight

You come and pick me up, no headlights”

You laugh and sing along: 

“Long drive

Could end in burning flames or paradise-“

Before you get in; right at the moment when I stand just behind you to circle the car and open the driver's side door-

Let's freeze time; after all, this is our last chance. I’ve given this part a lot of thought, actually—thought about making it rough, clumsy, and totally out of sync. I even considered hiding your phone so it’d seem like a robbery, or setting up an “accident.” Or making it intricate, lacing it with a twist of Narcissus, maybe a joke about Dumas, or a passage from a Russian novel, or even reading to you from *The House That Jack Built*. But you know, it wouldn’t suit your character. I needed to end it clean and quick, needed my own method for you, just as much as you believed I was someone “special.” Simple but complex—that’s what I needed. 

Probably no one else will ever find me interesting enough to look at me as though they’re sure I’ll stand atop the world one day, winking back at them through the cameras. No one will understand that whenever I eat tuna and celery, I’ve just killed one of my characters. And no one else will be there with me at midnight, following fox tracks. I owe you this much, so I’ll end it simple and clean. Promise.

I reach into the thin, nearly useless pocket of my dress and pull out only one thing. A special rod. Not sharp enough to slice through, but not dull enough to leave a suffocating bruise. Not too long to disperse force mid-way, nor too short to control. You need to know exactly where the bull’s-eye is, or the dead center, and just how much force you’ll need. The trick is in striking straight on, no angle, sudden and swift—that’s how it has to be.

Alright, let’s go back to that spot where we froze time.  

I do it.  

I leave you right there to die.  

I let you drop right onto the cold asphalt, so your eyes drain of life while I get in the car.  

I’m the director here—it’s my job to empty minds before the final scene.  

I can’t let you guess the ending.  

I can’t let you walk out with rigid theories and opinions.  

You have to trust me.  

My work is all about suspense.

I slip off my fuzzy slippers, leaving them by the pedals, and place my bare foot on the gas.  

Don’t tell anyone, but the last showing of the film is really for the killers. It has a certain homey feel to it, like 5 AM for the 5 AM club early risers at the gym, 6:30 AM for the runners, or 8 AM for all those who grab a matcha latte before their yoga class.

I turn the head unit knob just enough to let the faint hum of the song drown out my thoughts. I lean my elbow against the top of the door, propping my face on my hand. My hand’s still icy from the cold orange juice, and the little pink bear charm on my Pandora bracelet dances in the wind.  

Everybody knows whose best friend those pink charms are for. 

Its glossy surface catches the dim light like a fleeting memory. You bought them with your first paycheck. Both were pink. Because of me. Pink was my color. Back then, I was really happy to have matching things with you. But the more you became like me, the more nauseated I felt by all the insistence I had once made to buy all those things.

The roof’s open, and the cool air is making me drowsy. I bet I’ll be asleep the second my head hits the pillow.

Before I crawl into my bed, I reach up and slip the hair tie from my hair. I stare down at it in my hand. The color is wrong. The last time I used this tie was Tuesday before the holidays. Since then, I’d thrown it somewhere in my desk drawer. And the tie I wore today—the image in front of me flickers, like voltage going in and out. 

Damn. I’m asleep. I’m asleep right now, dreaming. 

Some people might call it a nightmare. 

Not me. 

Damn it. Now I’ll have to do it all over again. In real life.

What a hassle. What a hassle.