static of EDM would drown out any screams he might get a chance to let out. We’d agreed to strangle him. Less mess, more poetry. My tattoo remained the same as it was the night we met the girls. I wondered if, after tonight, the change would be permanent.
Steve mumbled something about Luce’s tits and told me he loved me. For a moment I wondered if I could go through with this. For all I knew, my tattoo wasn’t a demon or a way to see into anyone’s mind; I could just be a lunatic—a brain tumor, Lyme disease, schizophrenia. Was I really willing to murder my best friend over a newscast and what could have very well been a drug-addled dream?
And there, as we turned the corner towards the club, was the phantom tattoo shop. “I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Even better than killing him.”
She shifted under his weight and looked up at the banner. She read my mind and she grinned. “You’re sick,” she said. “But in a good way.”
We wrangled Steve through the door and the red-eyed proprietor barely looked up from his porno rag. I dumped Steve in the chair and turned to the owner. “Give him what you gave me,” I said, turning over my wrist.
“Dragon?” he said.
“Demon,” I repeated. “Just like you gave me.” I handed him the list we were going to pin on his shirt when we dumped his body. “And below it, I want these girls’ names in the same kind of ink.”
“Let’s get tattoos!” Steve shouted. “Fuckin’ tattoos, bitches!”
“You heard the man,” I said. “Ink him up.”
The cops found Steve wandering the FDR naked and screaming what they eventually translated to be a confession. Twenty-two bodies total. He was seeing ghosts, he’d told the cops, twenty-two ghosts all kicking him around and shrieking in his ear. He might never be fit for trial, but it was enough to keep him locked up for life.
A detective came by and questioned me and Luce, but we stuck to the script—we got drinks, yeah, but dumped his drunk ass in a cab and came home before ten. He clued me in on everything Steve said about me, that I was there the night of Shanna and Nikki’s murders, that I got him the tattoo, that I was possessed by demons the same way he was. I played somewhere between embarrassed and level-headed, kept my sleeve rolled down except to show him that, yeah, we got matching tattoos like the idiot bros we were. I reiterated that I knew nothing about the murders, that I couldn’t believe he would do this, but yes, I saw him leave Bento Friday and Decker’s with the girls in the photos. He asked why I didn’t go with him the last time; after all, there were two girls. “I got a girlfriend,” I said, glancing at Luce. Maybe it wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t correct me. She reached over and took my hand, just to sell it that much more.
The hardest part was trying not to think about the murdered girls. I’d be sitting at my desk at work and catch myself savoring the feel of a slim, smooth throat going limp between my bare hands. I had to fight to get my head clear and it wasn’t always easy. I would catch myself staring at Luce’s long, lean neck, the tendrils of her own tattoos just barely caressing her collarbone. I didn’t like the feeling.
My tattoo burned and I swore I heard it whisper in the 3 a.m. quiet. I got out of bed and crept quietly into Luce’s room. The city lights through the blinds striped her like an old black and white movie. She was sprawled out on her back, head turned away from me. She might not even feel it. All I could do was hope that it was over quick.
But as soon as I touched her neck, she woke up screaming. I clamped my hands down and she kicked, landing her knee square in my balls. I rolled off her and she freed herself. I stumbled to follow her. “Luce, I’m sorry!” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. …”
She ran into the kitchen, grabbing a paring knife and a cutting board. “We end this,” she hissed. “Tonight.”
“Luce, I can
Steve mumbled something about Luce’s tits and told me he loved me. For a moment I wondered if I could go through with this. For all I knew, my tattoo wasn’t a demon or a way to see into anyone’s mind; I could just be a lunatic—a brain tumor, Lyme disease, schizophrenia. Was I really willing to murder my best friend over a newscast and what could have very well been a drug-addled dream?
And there, as we turned the corner towards the club, was the phantom tattoo shop. “I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Even better than killing him.”
She shifted under his weight and looked up at the banner. She read my mind and she grinned. “You’re sick,” she said. “But in a good way.”
We wrangled Steve through the door and the red-eyed proprietor barely looked up from his porno rag. I dumped Steve in the chair and turned to the owner. “Give him what you gave me,” I said, turning over my wrist.
“Dragon?” he said.
“Demon,” I repeated. “Just like you gave me.” I handed him the list we were going to pin on his shirt when we dumped his body. “And below it, I want these girls’ names in the same kind of ink.”
“Let’s get tattoos!” Steve shouted. “Fuckin’ tattoos, bitches!”
“You heard the man,” I said. “Ink him up.”
The cops found Steve wandering the FDR naked and screaming what they eventually translated to be a confession. Twenty-two bodies total. He was seeing ghosts, he’d told the cops, twenty-two ghosts all kicking him around and shrieking in his ear. He might never be fit for trial, but it was enough to keep him locked up for life.
A detective came by and questioned me and Luce, but we stuck to the script—we got drinks, yeah, but dumped his drunk ass in a cab and came home before ten. He clued me in on everything Steve said about me, that I was there the night of Shanna and Nikki’s murders, that I got him the tattoo, that I was possessed by demons the same way he was. I played somewhere between embarrassed and level-headed, kept my sleeve rolled down except to show him that, yeah, we got matching tattoos like the idiot bros we were. I reiterated that I knew nothing about the murders, that I couldn’t believe he would do this, but yes, I saw him leave Bento Friday and Decker’s with the girls in the photos. He asked why I didn’t go with him the last time; after all, there were two girls. “I got a girlfriend,” I said, glancing at Luce. Maybe it wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t correct me. She reached over and took my hand, just to sell it that much more.
The hardest part was trying not to think about the murdered girls. I’d be sitting at my desk at work and catch myself savoring the feel of a slim, smooth throat going limp between my bare hands. I had to fight to get my head clear and it wasn’t always easy. I would catch myself staring at Luce’s long, lean neck, the tendrils of her own tattoos just barely caressing her collarbone. I didn’t like the feeling.
My tattoo burned and I swore I heard it whisper in the 3 a.m. quiet. I got out of bed and crept quietly into Luce’s room. The city lights through the blinds striped her like an old black and white movie. She was sprawled out on her back, head turned away from me. She might not even feel it. All I could do was hope that it was over quick.
But as soon as I touched her neck, she woke up screaming. I clamped my hands down and she kicked, landing her knee square in my balls. I rolled off her and she freed herself. I stumbled to follow her. “Luce, I’m sorry!” I said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. …”
She ran into the kitchen, grabbing a paring knife and a cutting board. “We end this,” she hissed. “Tonight.”
“Luce, I can
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