Those Less Fortunate

Smoke caressed Paul’s nose, slithering to the ceiling. With his breath held, he noticed the white lines climb to the top of the room as silence accompanied its dancing. Tears made of anger, joy, and fear kissed the side of his cheeks. It smelled awful in here, just awful.1

She lay still, bright clothing loosely hanging off her skin. Blood held her fake fur jacket tight to her stomach below a poorly matching tube top, clinging to a hole brand new to her body. To him, she was nameless.2

He had done it, finally done it. He had killed someone, some whore, nameless but to the streets, and only in a matter of seconds! She was one of those less fortunate, it may have been better that she was dead. His heart palpated fast, much faster than hers did. Such a rush flowed throughout his skin. He shivered. The chills sank deep into him. He let out his breath. His grin quickly turned into a frown as he felt the chills run too deep.3

He felt sick. He raced to the bathroom, knocking tables over and breaking vases. Gun still in hand, he heaved violently into the porcelain monster. Oh, the smell was awful.4

His long thin hair was muddle over his face, catching bits of his breakfast in its hands. With full sympathy for himself, he let out a low moan. Deep in his gut, he felt the sickness as his heart began to finally slow. He rested against the toilet, praying peace for his sickness. However, the unease persisted. He stood.5

Hardly garmented and with no intention of becoming clothed, he skulked back into the cheap motel room. His skinny, awkward body twitched occasionally. Glasses sat unevenly on the tip of his nose, threatening to fall at any moment. As well they did when Paul jumped at a noise behind him. He fell to the ground, crying.6

He quivered on the ground for seconds, unaware of the absence of a follow-up noise. He was frightened, huddled on the floor. He drifted in to sleep only by softly chanting a mantra.7

“This isn’t right…this isn’t how I should feel…this isn’t right…”8

Hours later (or what may have been hours later) Paul woke, dazed and uncomprehending. He pressed himself onto the moldy bed, rubbing his sore eyes. He whimpered softly to himself, stopping only when he noticed something wrong. The whore was missing.9

He jumped, heart pounding faster than before. Where had she gone? Where could she be? He looked from side to side frantically, startled by another noise from behind. He turned quickly, frightened.10

The Whore stood at the nightstand opposite of Paul, his wallet in her hands. She scurried through his cards, but seemed more interested by the pictures on the opposing side. She looked up briefly, calmly, barely noticing of Paul at all.11

“Don’t worry, I’m not taking anything, just looking,” she reassured. “Quite a family you’ve got here.”12

“You,” stuttered Paul. “Y-you should…should be…"13

“Dead? Well, you see, interesting thing about that…I am.” She looked down at the bed as Paul followed suit. There below lay the whore, blood and all. She looked cold. When Paul looked up The Whore alive was gone. He scanned the room for the existing woman, but she was missing, replaced by a face to cold to be alive.14

He was sick, “Carry her to the car… to the trunk, like how we planned it…just like we planned it.” He stared down at her, hesitant to do anything. Eventually, though, he dressed, and then lifted her to his arms. God, the smell was awful.15

THUD!16

The trunk closed with girl inside. Paul rubbed his eyes as he opened the door. He was so tired. He sat down in the driver’s seat, car keys in hand and ignorant to The Whore sitting next to him.17

“You forgot your glasses,” she stuck her hand out with the oval spectacles, terrifying him while he stabbed against the door. “I thought you might need them to drive. We don’t need two people dead tonight.”18

“You’re not here, you’re not here,” he said to himself, scared to death.19

“This isn’t real, not one bit of reality.” He looked to his right and she was gone. He sighed, quite audibly.20

“What, you think I would disappear?” She said from the back seat. He jumped high enough to hit his head on the roof of the car.21

“What do you want?” he shouted, tears forming in his eyes. “Why won’t you leave me alone? You’re dead, YOU’RE DEAD!”22

He banged his fist against the steering wheel in a tantrum, crying over what he wants but just cannot have. Peace. Yet she sat behind him, calm and knowing. He leaned his head over the wheel, sobbing.23

“Yes, I am dead, Paul. But you aren’t. And I ain’t here to give you good tidings and a happy ending. This is death, and death ain’t pretty.” He looked in his mirror, noting the lines on her face. She must have been about thirty-five years old, maybe more. She was a smoker, he could tell by her smell, so maybe less. She didn’t look too bad. It was in that moment that, in spite of his thoughts, she chose to smile, exposing her rotten green teeth. The lines deepened on her face, as she grew fifty years older before his eyes.24

“No,” he shouted. “NO!” His foot instinctively went to the gas pedal and the car reared forward.25

“You can’t choose what happens, Paul,” The Aging Whore yelled over the engine. “Just like me, just like everyone else in the world. They’ll find you, Paul! It’ll catch up to you. The police! The news! And what will your wife think? It’ll catch up to you, Paul! We cannot choose what happens to us. Because of that, we are those less fortunate.”26

His eyes watered and sobbed as the road become less clear. Traffic was impossible to decipher, but it was late. Or was it early? Was there even time at all? He counted seconds, trying to ease the tension, but it seemed to go on forever. Then came the crash.27

Paul woke up minutes later (or what may have been minutes later) against the dashboard. His head hurt so much. He looked around with care. She was gone. Back in the trunk, he was sure. He could smell her, mixed with fumes from the car, even those he wasn’t supposed to be able to sense. Oh, the smell was awful. 28

He got out, unsure of what to do. Examining his car, he found that he had simply driven into a ditch. He found no real damage. He peered past his car. He must have driven quite a ways, for he was now outside the city near the lake. Yet he was sure he had only driven for a few seconds, a minute tops.29

He had always planned to leave the body under a bridge or something, maybe even burning it. But that wouldn’t do. He saw an opportunity. He was close to the docks. He could let the sea take care of his demon.30

He opened the trunk with caution. Barely able to make himself look in, he found the body, restful and restless at the same time. He felt the sickness again but was able to hold it down. It would be over soon. The sickness was almost gone.31

He was halfway on the docks carrying the whore like a firefighter, tiring after what felt like years of work pushing down on his legs. He collapsed, repenting he had taken this on himself, as the whore fell to his side.32

“It’s too hard, it’s just too hard!” He breathed heavily, trying to take in more than he could hold, gasping like a shipwreck survivor. Slowly, he again passed into sleep. 33

Not long after, a hand took his shoulder, flipping him to the side. He stood to his feet quickly. To his surprise, no one was there. To his side there laid no body, but instead, a bloodied jacket. He looked to the end of the dock. There, against the moonlight stood The Whore, young again like the one in his trunk. No jacket rest on her shoulder. There was another figure with her, but his head faced the lake, his thoughts deeper than its waters.34

“Don’t worry,” She lipped her words, yet he swore he heard a faint whisper. “The lake can wash my blood. But it can’t wash yours.” 35

He didn’t understand. He eyes grew with intensity as the man next to her turned around. His smile foreboding, he almost looked happy, genuinely happy. It was repulsive, as if it caused the stench that still lingers in the air. And it was with a sickened stomach that Paul realized who the man was. 36

He became enraged, furious, and needful to kill again. He sprinted toward the two, yelling at the top of his lungs. For such a lanky man, he ran like a stallion. The two smiled at him endlessly. There was mischief in them, a devilish sort of joy, and joy was much more than Paul had.37

“You’re not real!” he cried. The dock was long, but he was quick. Soon, he made it to the end, and pushed the two smiling faces. He watched as they fell deep into the lake. The Whore was gone, and so was the man. He hated him much more than her; for the man was Paul, smiling larger than he had in reality.38

In the silence of the deaths, he held the jacket, still soaked in blood. It was then he realized that he had thrown the whore into the lake. The real whore, the dead whore. The scent of water replaced the smell of a cheap motel room, the smell of blood, the smell of death. He had done it, finally done it. He felt no sickness as he turned and went to his car. It was going to be a beautiful morning.39

Paul arrived home late that night. His wife was already in bed, not expecting him home a day early. She did not stir as he laid his head down to rest next to her, but she moaned an approving moan, happy to have him in bed. He joined close to his wife underneath their covers.40

He placed his head close to hers, kissing her forehead. Paul was sure he was happy to be home now. This is where he needed to be.41

He smelt her hair, full of berries of some off brand shampoo, the one she had used for years. Though something was strange about it. His eyes popped open as he felt the sickness again. He pushed himself up on the bed.42

“Honey?” his wife whispered. “Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?”43

The room remained empty except for the two, but Paul was sure he felt it. Was it the smell of his wife’s hair? Something in him was wrong, like it was before The Whore. But she was dead, he was sure of it. Suddenly, he knew what it was.44

“Honey?45

“Nothing’s wrong, dear,” he said. “I was just thinking about next weekend. I’ve got another out of town client to see.”46

“Ah, I don’t get you again next weekend?” she fake pouted, but she was dreadfully understanding. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make a killing.”47

No smile came to his face as he lay back to bed, turning away from his wife. He smelt it in the air, replacing the fruits of his wife’s hair and the smell of his own sheets. He knew where it came from now, and how to get rid of it. They won’t find him. It’ll never catch up to him. God, the smell was awful.48

“I certainly intend to, dear.”49