Page 2 of Trailer Trash

Humor always saves me. Not that I don’t enjoy pleasuring a woman.

Then we fuck.

Then, it’s over.

Except it’s not.

Like two newborn giraffes, we stand and search for our clothes. She attempts to dress. I help her. Then I button my jeans. I can’t find my shirt. A lamp falls. It shatters. I think the room is spinning. My eyelids are heavy. Moments flash of being present, then blacking out.

She laughs again.

Now, it’s annoying.

“Please, shut the fuck up,” I say, agonized.

She giggles, the noise scraping the inside of my skull.

Damn, I need a bump.

Suddenly, she flings her arms around my neck. I grab the dresser to keep upright. We both wobble while she gives me sloppy kisses on my neck.

“Thanks, Killy. You were so good!”

“I was?” I say, unable to remember much.

“Yeah!” Her hand wanders up to my face, and her thumb strokes my cheekbone. “And Jesus, your face is prettier than mine.”

I wait for the usual rush — that smug high of being adored. Yet, none of her praise sets in.

She just turns away. “See ya.”

“Wait. Want my number?” I blurt.

Her red lips curve into a carefree smile. “I swear. You are so funny.”

I furrow my brow.

Nina slips out of the bedroom and back to the party, leaving me alone in this dark room.

In some random house.

Oh well. Better for her to go than be clingy.

Yet, I stand there, drunk and shirtless, brooding because feeling anything is better than nothing. I mean, women used to want my number. They’d beg me not to ghost them. Now I’m their ghost. The kind that makes them shiver, then forget I was ever there.

Moonlight streaming through the blinds, lighting my way to an adjoining bathroom. I dig into my pocket and retrieve a tin. Inside, the powder I’m not supposed to touch.

My eyes flick up. I grimace at my reflection.

I don’t recognize myself. Once, I was built. Tall, rich, clean-cut, with curly black hair that fell exactly how I told it to. Everyone noticed when I walked into a room. Women wanted my number before I offered it. At least my face — the one Nina was gushing over — hasn’t completely changed. Women still worship my jawline as if it were sculpted by the gods. Like beauty makes me less of a disaster. Like a pretty face can’t lie, snort, or fake a laugh.

Now?

My bloodshot brown eyes are dead, my cheeks sunken, my nose sharpened by weight loss. Tattooed knuckles graze my stubble. Horror villains crawl from my fingers, up my arm, and across half my neck, cruel and grinning — a warning everyone ignores when they slap my back like I’m their jester.

Maybe I just need to gain weight... Dad’s gonna be pissed when he sees me this thin. The tattoos infuriated him. This will send him over the edge.

His dark eyes flash with that familiar look of disapproval.