THIS HOUSE IS BURNING

How would you kill me reader?

“Are you even listening?” he asks, slowly raising a forkful of grits to his mouth.

We’re at a Waffle House, eating dinner off the freeway. Impromptu stop, dim yellow lighting, the faint sound of conversation shrouds the diner like a blanket.

“No, I was thinking about how I’d kill you.”

He pauses.

It’d be rather simple, actually. An act of passion. Something I’ve always craved. No one’s ever matched my intensity—not even him.

“Okay,” he says, words fumbling as if they need to bounce off the roof of his mouth and tongue before exiting his lips. “How would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How would you kill me?”

“Right.” I’m trying to feign some sort of casualness but damn my shoulders are tight, tense. I’m always surprised by how tight my muscles get, almost as if they’re tied together, bound by some otherworldly dedication. I’m probably just stressed out. Or the weather—something my mother always blamed for every ache and pain. I wonder if it looks like I've thought about this before. The words should come out slowly.

“I’m stuck… between two options.”

But only one exists, though. I’d play the long game—something he deserves. Only the oblivious deserve mercy. My lovers will die slow. Tenderly. As will my enemies.

In the beginning he wasn’t a lazy lover. He was quick. Witty. Fun. There was a time I couldn’t imagine an end—every day bleeding into the next. Where does all the time go? So many memories. So much time. So many tears. So much love. I don’t regret a single moment but I can’t say it was all worth it.

“You think it’d be easy?” His voice shakes, unbelievable to me it’s from this new revelation but maybe something he ate. Pepper or hot sauce lingering in his throat.

“Absolutely.”

“Tell me how.”

God, he doesn’t shut the hell up. The same question, over and over. Believe it or not there was a time I couldn’t keep my fingers out of this man’s mouth. My touch is now reserved for strict times of maintenance. At one point I could taste his name on my tongue, my touch endless, devotional. Now I spit contempt at him. I guess I'll take my time answering, though the answer has always lived inside me.

“I’d weaken you. Slowly. Poison you just enough to hurt, then nurse you back to health.” A sourness appeared on his face, his small upper lip snarled in some sort of surprise. This was a common reaction for him, he looked so ugly while doing it.

“Over and over. Week after week. Month after month. Year after year. You’d rely on me completely, every waking second. Until one day, you’d lay your head in my lap and close your eyes for the last time.”

I met his gaze. “It sounds cruel, but it’s out of love. I hope you'll understand that— I love you.”

For a moment, he looked stunned. Then upset. Not devastated, though. Resigned maybe. Thinking. Processing. For the first time I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He let out a small laugh, it almost looked like it was an accident. Instinctual. The acute poverty of my response didn’t seem to discourage him.

“I can’t believe you think I’d let you do that.”

He’s such a fool. But worse, the kind of fool who believes he isn’t.

“You wouldn’t even notice until it was too late,” I say. “At that point, you’d let me. You’d let me love you to death.”

Slowly, child. Slowly. I hear my grandmother tell me. Whatever you do, do it slowly. Work slowly. Cook slowly. Walk slowly. Love slowly. I’m going to kill slowly. Slowly child, slow. She’s been divorced 3 times, what the hell does she know?

I wonder how he’d kill me.

“How would you kill me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not insane. So, I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

You can hear the cars on the freeway. Something that is holding my attention more than this conversation. Where is everyone going? A tiny story in each vehicle and maybe another pair of lovers are having this conversation. This realization makes life feel more insignificant, our conversations aren’t even exclusive to us. The world is large and vast and we’re just two people of a small family, of a small city, of a small country, of a small planet, of a small solar system, of an ever expanding galaxy. Maybe across time this conversation is happening fifty years in the past as well as fifty years in the future.

Everyone wants to think their experiences are singular and great and important but spend a little time outside, or in a book and you’ll quickly realize that most experiences, and feelings, are shared. The morbid ones, the sinister ones, the difficult ones that no one wants to talk about. There is evil happening in every neighborhood, and it’s more likely than you think. I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts.

“What about Chicago last year?”

I really don’t want to talk about Chicago last year.

He looked confused. “I was upset, sure, but never enough to kill you, or even think about it. The whole weekend was a disaster. We should have never had dinner together, but I invited them and you didn’t say no.” He leans closer across the table. “Again—unlike you—I’m normal,” his voice softening “apparently.”

He glances around and lowers his voice to a whisper. “But, uh… you taking care of me until I die? Twisted, evil even but thoughtful. A little erotic, I suppose.”

He’s always been so shy, always whispering in moments I need him yelling. Professing his love and desires of me for the world to hear. What a prude.

“How would you do me?” I say.

His eyes roll, he sinks back into the seat. “Is that all you’re thinking about?”

Yes.

“No, obviously not.” I smirk, for just a second. “I’m just curious.”

I really was just curious, but I could see a shroud of seriousness fall over his face. Determined to produce a thoughtful answer. He took a minute to really think but as soon as he started to open his mouth I interjected.

“Whatever you do—however you decide to do it…”

A pause. Letting the words linger a little too long.

“Just do it faster.”