But I Need You (This Love Hurts 2)

His death is my purpose.

As we round the corner of the liquor store, the parade falls behind us. With a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, it seems he’s given up on the beer and moved on to something harder. I’ve watched Harold for nearly a week and his routine is simple. He leaves his home around noon. He wears jeans stained with old paint. He goes to the bar down Fifth Street and when they kick him out, he goes to the liquor store he just came out of.

Then he goes back down to Fifth but he takes the alley. It’s so he can piss on the wall or the cars in the parking lot behind the bar. He’s only done it twice, but his rough laugh that echoes late at night indicates he truly enjoys it. It’s just as much a part of his nightcap as the bottle of gin he’s got gripped in his right hand.

I’m grateful he’s gone down this way tonight. I don’t know why he’s already headed down the back path, given that he wasn’t even at the bar for long today and left to see the parade. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Back here it’s quieter, but the music still filters through. I keep to the left, next to the trash cans and look down at the old stone that’s unrepaired and the rubble of concrete that was used to fill the gaps years ago.

My heart races, moving so much faster than my footsteps in the worn sneakers that don’t quite fit. Everything feels hot, even though I’m aware I’ll be freezing tonight, wherever I lie down to rest. The blood rushes in my ears so loud I can barely hear him.

His jacket rustles when I tap his shoulder. I have to look up to do it, my neck craning because he’s a larger man, rotund from drinking and not doing a damn thing else. When he turns I’m quick to hit him in his groin, catching him off guard to steal his wallet.

Chase me down the alley, my inner voice prays. My sneakers squeak as I run farther to the left, farther away from the couple kissing past the dumpsters at the start of the busy street.

So we can be alone.

“Little shit.” His groan fills the smaller space, the alley that leads down to an old row of homes built for the steel mill. You can barely fit a bike through this alley. I remember when my brother did it, though.

With everything raging inside of me, I don’t count on the tears or how my gaze becomes glossy at the memory.

Cody had me on the back of his bike, and he was able to ride down an alley just like this one. I remember how scared I was that he was going to hit the wall or that his handlebars would catch the side of a brick. I shouldn’t be thinking of him right now. I lose myself, my focus, I lose everything remembering how I held on so tight to him. Stopping in my tracks, right in the middle, the man curses behind me and grabs my shoulder.

I don’t even recall my hand wrapping around the blade, but when I strike him in the gut, once then twice, that’s when I realize what I’ve done and that I’m still here. I’m not back with Cody, holding on to a small bag of candy.

I’m not there at all. I’m holding a bloody blade and looking up at a man who fails to say anything.

Harold looks older than the picture in the paper when I look up. His skin is a little more yellow too, and more wrinkled than the paper. The shock in his gaze was also absent then.

I hesitate for only a moment when his wide eyes look down at me. He stumbles back just slightly and I stand facing him in the narrow alley, his wallet in one hand and the blade in the other.

My heart is still racing, but he’s more disoriented than I am. And I’m the one with the plan. He swallows thickly before calling out for help.

The man’s on his ass, scooting backward. He’s trying to get away, but what’s done is done. There’s sorrow and sympathy, but it’s odd how it comes, how it’s because it’s like Cody’s watching me. He wouldn’t want this, but Cody’s not here and he’ll never know.

Everything speeds up then. I only hesitate because he’s watching me. The moment Harold turns his head to look behind him, maybe to cry out for help again, I strike. Eating up the short distance between us with long strides and slicing his throat.

Once, twice, and a third time.

It gushes at first, hot and bubbly. It’s different than what I’ve seen in the barn.