Copper Hearts

Melody 3

Melody, Melody, Melody. How you played with my soul and enticed me to become obsessed with you only to find out how truly futile you are. Raise above your father issues, you incompetent fool.

I slam my fifth shot of meth and she is home. Every problem on my table of rubbish - gone. She doesn’t matter to me any longer as a domestic rodent in the wild would. I spit on her shoes in a vision, imagining her with bucked teeth and a hunched back. A disgusting, filthy pig of a cunt lives on inside of her.

She knows.

She knows she brings a warmth to my chest I have not been able to feel since… ever. f**k her. Manipulative witches need not a place in my life. In my peripheral. In my town.

I spend the next few hours planning. Her family’s schedule has become second nature to me from hacking their security cameras – because wonderful Melody lives in the suburbs – and so there should be no difficulty in finding the right time to snatch her to myself.

Only I succumb to one problem. How the f**k do I ensure she does not escape? All I can imagine are her pilfered screams rattling through the neighbourhood provoking my fellow neighbours to call the authorities in favour of the obvious r**e w***e.

I cannot tape her mouth shut.

Perhaps a babysitter will prevent the trepidations.

—

Cold and wet feet track down the man as he runs for what is commonly left at one’s end of a rope. Human beings prefer to die than suffer, but when given the revolver, he reconsiders.

—

I decide to meet my nephew in the park Saturday morning to present my preposition in person. I waste no time getting ready for this painful conversation. As expected, I’m met with his reluctant, shrewd response to aiding in a kidnapping.

“Dude. What the f**k?” his blue eyes are wide as he answers my question. It is now, he decides to stick to selling drugs and hassling nude photos out of underage girls.

“An hour a day to check in on her. Don’t act like this is the first time I’ve asked a commitment of you.”

He shakes his head.

“Pay me double.”

“Do you really think money is a problem, Matt?”

“From here, it’s all I care about.”

-

I cannot sleep. Calls missed from the muse bring my hopes of shutting my eyes for the night to a ultimate halt - one that goes on for three days straight - my body aching as the H continues to seep out of my system slowly imitating the tender swing of a pendulum clock. I want her dead.

I’d most rather be having a nightmare.

Morning comes. The pains have become so excruciating in the form of sore muscles that I take a line before leaving for work. Monday. Also known as intake day.

The ward is an overload of detained hookers, runaways who were deemed unstable when found, and the typical twenty something year old who was brought in by police for domestic abuse.

I meet with half of them. Too many borderlines seeking benzodiazepines for “anxiety” and “panic disorder”. Go on, make yourselves at home, my expression must scream as I obligate to their wants. Their addiction issues are not my problem until they admit it to a nurse and seek therapy. The world stops for no one.

I am an addict myself and will not seek help. I know how to quit. I know how to not die from a hit. Who am I harming with my meth and heroin? Both of my parents are gone. Everything I do for this world can be done by someone finer at the job. After all, we are only a sum of our actions. And sometimes I cannot tell if this is suicidal ideation or ethicality in its most cold form.

I haven’t had time to mourn Kitty— Mum —God, she was anything but, however I do deal with women like her at work daily. Borderlines. Alcoholics. Divorcees who cannot live with themselves.

I am a widow. And I love it now. I understand not everyone is as strong as I. Natural selection and I are a close-knitted affair in where I astray from her to go abuse drugs and contemplate a homicidal kidnapping of someone I once adored. Become the weakest kind of human. Did you know my mother almost called my birth name Kent?

Do you know how simple my life would be if that were my destination through nomenclature? If I were a welder, I mean.

I put my philosophical thoughts in the back of my mind and focus on the patient in front of me. He continues to look out the window as the sun shines straight in his eyes. I offer him Klonopin for his anxiety, explaining that I do not have a diagnosis to medicate him properly using. He threw a fit at his mother for taking away his alcohol.

“Is this a psychology test? Fail me.”

I stare hard at him.

“Michael, I wouldn’t be so inclined to waste both our time on testing that is manipulative, thus ineffective.”

“I don’t know what kind of lab meds you want to put me on–“

“Watch yourself or we will.”

This is his last warning to shut his mouth and oblige to the Klonopin. He knows these interviews are being recorded but is unaware that they can also be used against him in a court. Try getting your human rights back once you’ve been diagnosed with schizophrenia. I have ruined lives over this painful decision.

If only I could go back in time to when she was in my care. When my selfish will was to protect her from the system the last person I had in mind was my future self being ever so disgusted with her young adult mind. So virginal for an age many pornstars make their debuts affronting themselves for an income. I should have known better than to trust her with my dignity. She has made me choose between her and my suffering subconscious.

—

I am too high. The phone has rung fourteen times in the past two hours. Nothing will remove me from my computer desk as I lay my head against the wood enjoying the manmade warmth of heroin.

On the fifteenth call, I answer reluctant to speak into the phone and let my thoughts pour out of my damaged soul. I am passionate in peril of my f*****g hatred. But I am not a fool.

“Hello, Melody.”

“Sorry to bother you this late.”

Take that back, you lying wench.

“You are not bothering me, dear.”

Fucking w***e.

Stupid f*****g w***e.

“How are you?”

I close my eyes.

“I am fine. What have I missed?”

“Typical stepfather trying to talk me into becoming an accountant instead of following my dreams.”

“Always follow your dreams, love.”

Melody sighs.

“Sometimes I believe him.”

You also believe there is a possibly of us happening. Piss off.

“Look. Never allow someone…. with less substance than you to determine where you are passionate and best fitted.” I force the words out. I cannot tell her she is an i***t. Soon to be dead before any form of journalism aside from exhibiting her anus with a fifty six year old man takes place.

“Thanks, Cal.” She says. “You don’t know how much I need you.”

Oh, for f**k’s sake.

“Goodnight, Mel.”

I hang up the phone before I can slam my fist against the table as hard as possible.