Uma contributed a marvellous post called “diving off the high board” to my blog on the 8th of March. I promised her that I would contribute something of my own to her blog shortly afterwards. I made a liar of myself – a long time passed and I had not contributed anything. Thankfully, she reminded me I owed her something. Here it is.
But first, a bit about myself. I am from Namibia. I write. Not for a living, but I write. My scribbles can be found here on WordPress. My screen name Scribbla. This is the first time that I am contributing to a blog outside of my own. It makes me nervous.
I occasionally participate in a challenge called “Inspiration Monday” that is posted by the wonderful BeKindReWrite. The piece I have submitted here was incited by one of this week’s prompts. It is of an adult nature. If you are easily offended, please do not read it.
Thank you very much to Uma for participating on my blog and for inviting me to participate on hers. I am deeply grateful.
“You don’t think of it as murder, darling.”
Mike was off his head again.
It wasn’t the manic look in his eyes or the menacing undertone in his nonchalant babbling. It wasn’t the white powder dusting his dark moustache and beard. It wasn’t the two cigarettes and three glasses of Jack he worked; that he kept eyeballing as if they were recent additions to his bevy of courtesans.
Nope. I knew Mike was fucked up on something special because he was wearing his white garter belt, stockings and lace bra. Draped across his Recamier, a swinging, beguiling leg dangled over one of the backrests. It seemed to fish for compliments. Like I was angling for leads.
“Well then, what do you think of it as?” I threw out.
“Opportunity,” he swung his leg to the ground then played a game of eenie-meenie-mynie-mo with his drinks. He settled for the emptiest.
“Drugs kill. You know that. You sell drugs. It’s murder,” I pointed out.
“Cars kill too, don’t you know? And those poor darlings that sell them are also murderers now?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Which is precisely why I don’t think of it as murder,” Mike quipped.
He was getting pissed off.
“Look, I’ve never had a problem with you, Mike.”
“It’s Michelle for tonight.”
“Michelle. All I want is one name.”
Mike stood up and walked around the opulent room. Shag carpets, wall carpets, even ceiling carpets between the mirrors; all of those carpets in splendid, rich colours tastefully matched to the heavy, genuinely antique furniture scattered strategically around the room.
I thought of my own squalid one room apartment with leaking water pipes and faulty electrical wiring, the faint smell of shit always hanging in the air because the pressure in the toilet was so poor that no matter how many times I flushed something always remained.
“No,” Mike’s voice came from behind me. “Funny thing is that I quite admire you. You are one of the few that never judged me. You still don’t. If I give you a name, you will be killed. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
I looked up at the ceiling, at his reflection in one of the mirrors which made him look upside down. He followed my gaze. Our eyes met. We stared at each other a moment too long.
He knew the name he would give was his own. That he would have to dispose of me if he said so. Now he also knew that I knew he was the one.