Traitor

It was the Greek traitor Ephialtes who killed the Spartans at Thermopylae.
Just like Judas, Benedict Arnold or Brutus -- Ephialtes is remembered.
He found his way to strike the back of the Spartan body.
Greek turning on Greek.
And like a Greek tragedy, I think of you.
My world is a tragic affair. Yours makes it all the more so.
Et tu Bruti?
Still, it's a tragic affair I guess I lived through. The knife may have nicked my heart, but I sure as hell am not bleeding out.
I wonder if Ephialtes held a Spartan as he died. Did he ever consider loyalty? Did the Spartan ever consider trechery?
The great ones always believe in absolute loyalty, never expect the dagger to come from close.
This is all history, an old story, though.
Ephialtes, Judas, and Arnold are too cliche. Maybe history will give you your own name.
Unfortunately my name for you is "honey."
It's a poison honey, though.

Untethered

"You don't look like much these days."
"Sorry to disappoint you, really am," I say.
"You can see it in your eyes. Your eyes say a lot. What happened to the guy I used to know. No, you don't look like much these days." He says it with some satisfaction.
"My luck ran out a long time ago. It's all about getting where I need to be now."
"That sounds like a blues song."
"Maybe the blues would be my perfect soundtrack, then."
I pick up my bourbon and coke, my blues drink, and swallow hard, then lay it back on it's soggy napkin. The music, the bass is loud in the room, people scurrying all around.
"What happened to your cheek?"
My hand goes to the left side of my face and rubs.
"Work." I drink.
"Is it really that bad? What kind of work do you do?"
I choke down the liquor. "The kind that requires scars." If he sees I'm visibly upset, he's happy with it and smiles. "How's Marie?"
"Easier than I thought."
"What?"
"She's up north. Went home for a bit."
"What did you say before that?"
"She's fine."
"Glad to hear it. I was curious."
"She doesn't talk about you too much. We have fun."
I choke down a gulp. "You should get a drink. It helps you become less of an asshole."
"Asshole? What do you mean? It's not like you loved her."
He grins at me, something ridiculous.
At that point I'd had enough and I let loose, let fly, fists pounding, knocking him to the ground.
Someone pulls me away.
I readjust my shirt and he gets up, sniffs, blood running down his lip, stares at me, reels back and then it's my turn to go down.
The bartender is dragging me out and I land on the curb, get up, readjust my shirt and collar.
"The police will be here in a minute," he says.
"That's fine," I dust off my pants. "I'm satisfied."
And I walk away.
Maybe that's the way it should happen. He leans on the table, staring, grinning something ridiculous. And I can only drink.
The next day I decide to run, to clear my mind, then decide I'm too tired to run and settle on running errands, and I drive.
I drive too fast down the road. And think. And she's somewhere in the back of my mind, untethered.
Open windows and the wind is splashing my face, sun bathing my face, and I wish to myself that I was content with the world. I don't feel like much these days.
Stopped at a red light a pretty face pulls up next to me, smiles, and I smile back, but it is an empty smile. I have my sunglasses on and she can't see my eyes.
I think, then, about what he said and think that I really am finally dead.

Negative Momentum

The rain is pounding on the car.
Inside, windows all shut and fogging up, the storm sounds harder than it is, drops pounding on the hollow metal frame, echoing and lost in the silence.
And when it rains on a car when I am in it, I always feel that echoing echo through my soul.
In the car that's how it starts. Hollow.
The engine is on. And we kiss, and she is smiling and I'm not sure if I'm smiling back and only keep on kissing.
When I confirm I don't feel anything I pull away. She stares at me, brown eyes big.
"I don't know," I say, look away, at the rain slashing aross the parking lot in the dark midnight, the streetlights above us reflecting off the sleek ground.
"That felt good," she said.
"I don't know." And I look at her and draw one of those it-was-good-while-it-lasted smiles and she doesn't say anything. My voice is hollow and echoing. I look away. I step out, not worried about the weather, the rain streaking down my face, not worried about her.
My cloths are immediately soaked. And I walk away.
That's how it ends.
Back in my own car, then. And while driving I feel good or feel hollow and think that this is what it is to be dead.