i.

            Usually the night is never young for me because it’s always old, but tonight I don’t have a choice, because my brother, Lance, decides to throw a party in honor of it being the first weekend of summer. Although usually impressed by Lance since he has managed to keep his party and social life away at our city home, he disappointed me and brought the party to our quiet plantation home is Slaughter, Louisiana.

            I sit in my leather rolling chair next to the large window of my study, and reluctantly doggy-ear the page of Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, and let my bare feet touch the cool marble floor. I try not to let my anger get the best of me, but I’m just too pissed and end up slamming the book on the wooden desk across from my fireplace, and look outside the large window that takes over the entire right side of my room.

            A girl runs topless across our side lawn and heads straight for the forest; another eggs her on with her fist in the air and is missing her pants and I guess she decides to grab and idiot and make them her hair dresser because her hair is cut diagonally from her right ear to her left shoulder. Lance has somehow managed to hang lights on the oak trees that surround our house, and it looks very pretty and makes my smile. A big group of kids are dancing to…what sounds like…Royals by Lorde and I somehow wish it isn’t Lance working the DJ, but shake my head because I know better. I want to think the music sucks, I do, but I don’t, and just when I think it can’t get worse, a huge rock breaks through my window and nearly scratches my marble floors with its sharp edges.

            I look at the size of the rock and my eyes get wide, because I can’t imagine how someone can hum a rock that heavy that high, and when I look through the hole (yes, it is that huge to where I can fit my head through it) I see a girl with a black Mohawk and raccoon eyes pointing up at me. And it’s weird, because she wears a pink tight dress and I laugh.

            “You…Charlotte?....You’re Charlotte Snow?” she slurs.

            I laugh. “Yeah, that’s me,” I say. I decide to keep it cool, because I really don’t know this girl, and really she didn’t deserve to see my anger just yet. I raise an eyebrow to challenge her.

            “What is it…” she says, her arms are open wide in the air, like she’s offering �" showing �" herself to me bared,“ are you too good enough for us? Stuck up there in your…your tower…j-j-just…just deciding to put us below you?”

            I almost want to pull up a chair and talk to this girl, but the glass’s edges are piercing into my skin, so all I can think is …I am so above you…and keep it short.

            “I do not think I’m above you, stranger,” I say. “I know I’m above you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

            “NO!” she screams. A couple heads turn her way, look up at me, and then back down at her. And so I wait, even though I’m not patient. I feel myself smiling, entertained by her boldness and decide to stick around for the show. “Just because you and your brother…and you’re spoiled little brat of a sister live here doesn’t mean that you own the place…the world is not yours! It will never be! Other people matter too!”

            I realize that everyone has pretty much left me and this girl alone.

            “You know…I get that you are trying to be someone. Really, I do. But the truth of the matter is, is that I’m a realist and you came to me, which means…you want to hear it, right?” I smile. “Let’s keep it pragmatic. In real life, you mean nothing. You think putting your two cents in about politics or about religion or society matter? They don’t! What do you think this is, a movie? This isn’t Mohawk in a Pink Dress vs. The world. This is real. Real life. Do you understand? So please…darling…go slit your wrist where someone cares. Because that’s not here.”

            I wait for some type of guilty emotion to overcome me, and I get nothing. This makes me upset, and I wonder why I don’t have more sympathy for the outsiders. My neck begins to ache from me sticking it out the window, my feet begin to get clammy against the marble floors and my weight shifts from right leg to left.

            She stares at me like she can’t believe I just said it to her face and just stands there dumbfounded.

            “You ever look at an action movie…” I say, “and millions of people die…the millions of people that aren’t really the main characters, but somehow they still manage to exist somewhere in the plot even though they aren’t really important anyway? Well, that’s you. And at the end, no one cares if you’re really dead…hell, they don’t even show the part where they notify friends and family of their daughter, son, wife, husband’s death. Because you are just…so irrelevant to the plot that it just doesn’t matter.”

            Tears begin to stream down the girl’s face, and she just continues to stare. She begins to bore me.

            “Now, the next time you call my entire name, I want to think about what the hell you are going to tell me, because I refuse to be bothered by this foolishness again. Do you understand me? It was nice being real with you.”

            I take my head out the window and roll my eyes, taking a deep breath. I wish teenagers with her issues made me sad, but they didn’t. I walk over to my fire place and get my phone off the mantle and dial Hilda, our house maid, to tell her to make a few calls in the morning about my window.       

            I want to scream because I’m so aggravated, but I hold it down because I respect Hilda and she doesn’t really deserve to be bantered on since she is…however…in the path of my agitation.

            My red finger nails clank against the mantle of the fire place, and I bite my lip and begin to think about where I left my chap stick…I have a bad habit of leaving them in books.

            Hilda answers on the third ring. “Hoe-lah.”

            “Damn it, Hilda it’s oh-lah.” Her squeaky voice needs to stick to its southern accent, so I don’t have to put up with this Rosetta Stone rubbish she’s trying to pull.

            “I’m really sorry, Charlotte. You know I really want to learn…”

            “But really, do we have time for that? Anyway… one of Lance’s crazy party guests threw a rock at my window, and I need to get it fixed…” I wait for her to respond, but she doesn’t. I get annoyed. “Jesus, Hilda, did you hear me?”

            “One moment, Charlotte,” she says, “one of Lance’s party guests are demanding �" ”

            There’s static in the phone. “Is this Charlotte Snow?” a deep voice says. I hesitate for a moment.

            “It really depends on who’s asking.”

            “Don’t ask questions. I’ll be up to your study in five minutes.” The line clicks before I can ask questions, and I stare it dumbly before slamming it down on the mantle.

            I peer down at what I’m wearing and realize that my pastel blue lingerie dress and black silk robe really weren’t the best pick for the night, but wait, I wasn’t supposed to see anyone tonight. I try not to get too pissed, because I realize it’ll give me frown lines.

            Lance’s bass becomes so strong, that American Psycho vibrates on my wooden table. I wonder if Marlie enjoys when Lance acts out; knowing her she probably does and gets some type of natural high from it. She’s ten and she’s already worried about boys, and thinking about it makes me want to scream because she won’t realize that life’s not about that until later. She’s not a smart girl, because she’s full of dreams. To believe in dreams you must be stupid and reckless, and, really, who has time for that?

            I lean against the foggy, glass door of my study and hear voices on the outside, which is weird because I told Lance to block off the third floor and I was really only expecting one guest.

            A male voice speaks, slightly slurred. “Shelly let me touch her b***s dude. God, they felt awesome…like my hands were sleeping on a water bed.”

            Another male voice chimes in, “Every man…that has hands has touched her b***s, so join the club! You know who I’d like to get in bed?”

            “Who?”

            “Brooke-f*****g-Adams, man.”        

            There’s a whistle. “So what, you a n****r lover now, Davis?”

            “Why do you have to bring race into this, man? It has nothing to do with that. I just wanna’ f**k her.”

            “Yeah, f**k a n****r. Don’t accidentally get her knocked up, because you know people around here will look at you like you’re a maniac. See, I don’t care, ‘cause I love you regardless, man, but don’t forget to protect the neck… I heard them n*****s dirty anyway.”

            I open the door of my study and step outside and see some lame rednecks hanging around the railings next to the stair case. The music is louder, and it’s colder out here and I suddenly realize how naked I really am. And so, they look me over because of this.

            I notice the redhead with freckles first…probably from some photo Lance has showed me, but I don’t remember seeing the chubby one anywhere, and I say, “What the hell do you rednecks think you’re doing being racist in my house?”   

            “If it aint Charlotte Snow,” the fat one says. I recognize the voice, and it’s Davis. “You lookin’ good girl.” He takes a swig of a beer in his chubby hand, and winks a heavy eye lid at me and I stop myself from throwing up.

            “This place ya get here…” the skinny one says, motioning around with his beer, “is nice. I hope to find myself one of these nice ‘ole comfy homes one day.”

            I cross my arms over my chest.

            “I want you both out. Now.”

            “Oh come on, sweet cheeks!” Davis says. “Me and Chase here just havin’ a little fun.”

            “I don’t tolerate racism in my house. I won’t say it again. Get the hell out.”

Davis stands up and takes a swig of beer, and Chase, the skinny one, stays put.

            “I don’t think you heard me…” Davis says. “I want to stay.” Redhead gets up, and they both begin circling around me. I feel myself tremble, but I don’t feel fear.

            “Get out,” I warn again. I’m surprised by how powerful my voice sounds, and then I’m not surprised at all.

Davis grabs me by the hair and pulls me back into my study, pushing the door open with so much force that is slams into my bookcase behind it and I somehow see Charles Fraizer’s Cold Mountain hit the floor and rage pours through me. Even though it hurts, I refuse to scream, but I thrash just because it’s natural, but Chase grabs my ankles, and I kick him dead in his face.

“You like that, huh, baby?” I say, and I kick him in his stomach so he crashes into my bookshelf, then I say damn, and Davis has me pinned under his fatbody on the couch near my fireplace.

“I’m gonna’ rip your insides out, doll,” he says. He has so many chins, I lose count while I’m counting and his face is so red and fat that it looks like tomato, so while he’s in the middle of ripping my clothes in half, I start to laugh.

“This is funny to you, huh?” He gets mad, and his slob begins to come out of his mouth, and he doesn’t even notice.

“This is funny to me. I’m laughing, aren’t I?”

Davis slams his lips on mine, and his tongue forces itself into my mouth and down my throat. And somewhere where fear wasn’t, and rage was, I snapped my teeth together, and a slimy piece of tongue filled my mouth and tasted like metal. Davis begins screaming while still on top of me, and blood squirts all over my face, on my silk lingerie and robe, and I realize I’m going to have to tell Hilda what happened.

I take the piece of tongue out of mouth, and kick Davis in his balls, which flips us off the couch and onto the marble floors of my study. I stuff the pink glob in my fist, and something about the way Davis’s huge, fat body is squirming in pain and in fear of me makes me feel so good, I can’t handle it.

I start laughing, and I know I’m pretty. And I know in Davis’s eye he can’t see how there’s a demon in a pretty thing like me, but there is. And I love him like this. I love him covered in his own blood; I love him with my arm halfway down his throat so that it grabs onto his trachea. Somewhere inside him I lose the piece of tongue I managed to shove down there, and I lose myself.

Chase throws up behind me, paralyzed in fear.

“Eat it!” I scream. “Eat it you OBESE PIG! EAT IT!” and Davis’s eyes are so wide, and it makes my heart melt. And it makes me feel so good; I take my arm from down his throat and unzip his pants. Blood covers me all over, and I take my time to get the chrome letter opener from off my desk.

In some way, Davis is still alive and he’s watching me.

“Do I make you hard now, Davis?” I ask. And all I could think was how n*****s would love to see this. I take his sad limp of a penis, and bring my hand back with the letter opener and slice is all, and afterwards poking multiple holes in his testicles before ripping them off with my hands and stuffing them down his throat.

Fatass fatass fatass.