People Shouldn’t Play with Knives

Posted: July 23, 2014 by writingsprint in Between Lee and Erica
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Eighth and Last Part of “Between Lee and Erica”

He was stoned by now. Baked. Flying. He couldn’t remember the last time he abused himself so good. He’d smoked the joint all by himself long before he left Kristen’s room. In this state he had managed to return to the house, let himself in and almost decapitated the dummy, whose remains were still left by the door. He looked around the living room, trying to fix his priorities again. Check Erica’s room, that was one, but he couldn’t concentrate on what the others were.

Greg’s room was in the back. From the street, he’d seen that the lights were out and his air conditioner was on. Erica’s room was closest to the stairs.

Her door was closed. Without hesitating Lee opened it and walked towards the bed. Empty. If he was wrong she would have been pissed as all hell. He knew he wouldn’t be, but even if he had been, he wouldn’t care. He was stoned, that was his excuse.

Lee walked back out and closed the door. He leaned back against it, tying his hands around the doorknob to stay balanced. The next door, Greg’s, was a lot harder. Greg was like Walt. Not as fun, but he had the same look in his eyes when he talked. Like he could see right through him. His vision hazed over as he stood up again. Lee ambled down the hall, avoiding the spots that were creaky without even thinking. If he’d been clean, he doubted he could have done it.

The door to Greg’s room was closed. He could hear what they were doing. The sounds were almost too low to hear between the door, music from inside, and the air conditioner. They were taking their time. He wished they were playing some Doors music to get him fired up. No, she wanted bass. Rhythm. He stood outside, numb from the drugs, but feeling a mixture of disbelief and amazement. Lee stood there for a long time. It couldn’t be as long as it felt. He was still flying, so it wasn’t long enough for him to lose it. His fists tightened as he heard Erica come, a sound he had only heard in his imaginings for several months. He needed something to hold. Something to do. There was no way he could just stand there and listen. Lee’s hands searched his pockets and pulled out the knife.

Lee smiled at it and poked it into the wall. He pulled the point back out and poked again. He was flying faster now. Tap-tap on his hands, just enough not to prick the skin. Tap-tap on the wristband of his ancient watch, just enough to snip off a piece of the leather.

Lee ambled back down the hallway. No creaks again, but this time he didn’t care. This was more fun than listening outside the door. Tap-tap on his hand, just hard enough to push a calus inward a little bit. Tap-tap-tap on the door to his own room, and a paint chip dances to the floor. It looked like a falling star in the middle of a spinning wooden whirlpool. Tap-tap-tap on his pants leg, just enough to break the threads.

Lee looked at his pants leg venomously. It didn’t want to rip. He walked into his room and dropped into his closest chair. He started working on the tiny near-rip. He’d make it bigger by the end of the night, jabbing bit by bit. He didn’t feel the first time he cut his leg, or the second.

  1. A.D. Everard says:


    (Yes, I know, I have a heap to catch up on, it might take some time).


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