Dream: There Won't Be Clean Panties in Hell

We knew we were dead. You and I had been standing in line for a hundred and fifty-seven years at the checkpoint where the dead are admitted to the non-living world .  You busied yourself smoking cigarettes, and I busied myself wondering about the children- yours and mine, both.

Some stowaways from the living world were always trying to sneak in, so everybody had to be looked over and checked off the list before they could enjoy one moment of the afterlife. I complained that it seemed to be taking forever, and somebody up ahead warned me against advertising those types of opinions. If the souls in charge heard me, they'd bump me to the back of the line, and I'd have to take you with me, since you were my "afterlife buddy," whatever that meant.

Once we were approved, we began to understand the differences we were facing. We had our bodies and our personalities, but little else. The living would fade in and out. We might see a glimpse of them at the strangest moments, but for the most part, they remained obscure.

I have an eccentricity about clean underwear. I must have them at all times. Even in the living days, I spent far too much money maintaining a certain level of newness in my panty drawer. The problem with the non-living world is that you have to scavenge for the items you want to hold on to. New panties...not easily found.

You followed me around, teasing me about my craziness, but I located a chest of drawers, and the top drawer was chock full of  pressed, white bikinis. I thought I had hit the motherload, but as I pulled them out, I noticed a stain on each and every pair. I tossed each to the side, and when I reached the bottom of the drawer I turned to you and declared that we must be in Hell.

"We're not in Hell," you insisted, your Green Eyes twinkling. "Not if we're together."

My heart started beating in my chest, and I had to look away from you to hide my face and the realization that nobody had ever said anything so sweet to me until just that moment. I collected myself and thanked God that he had stuck me with you for the duration of Eternity, but even in Eternity, I couldn't openly commit to an attachment to you.

"Well then... I must be in Hell," I told you matter-of-factly, pointing to myself. For a half a second, I wanted to retract those words, but you being you, they slid right off. No worries.

"You're so full of shit," you told me as you spun me into your arms. "You know you're loving this."

Trashy Fiction: Such a Nice Girl

I’m not awake. I’m not.

I AM NOT AWAKE!

Aw shit.

I am awake.

It’s not the kind of barely awake when I can pretend I’m dreaming and slip back into unconsciousness as if awake had never happened. My eyes have lost their heaviness and my bladder is screaming for relief. I’m not going back to sleep today.

I am fully, undeniably awake.

The blackbirds are bitching in the eaves outside my window. The triangle of soft light sneaking under the blinds tells me I’ve fallen asleep on the wrong side of the bed. The right side of the bed seems to be blocked by another human being. A man. I’m not sure if I should know him.

Great.

Just what I need on top of the alcohol fog left over from last night. I move my head to peer at my new bed buddy. I swear I can hear the slosh as my brain floats around in a skull full of tequila and salt.

He’s still sleeping. Lucky jerk. He is slumbering silently with his back to me. He is hogging most of the bed and all of the blankets.

My territorial self wants to slug him in the shoulder and shove him over, but my hung over, self-loathing, mortified self lets him sleep. No need to poke the bear.

Snippets of last night’s activities are beginning to solidify into an actual memory. I moan and cringe with the realization of what I’ve done.

Flickers of mouth against mouth, flesh against flesh, screams of pleasure and pain. Empty promises.

Geez. What will my neighbors think?

I’ve always been so quiet. I’ve not been known to have such a wild side. I’ve never parked my car halfway in the yard at two in the morning, dragged my drunk ass into the house and had raunchy, loud relations with a man I have known for only one evening. A man whose name I do not know, and cannot, for the life of me, recall right now. I am such a slut.

Gregory? Gilbert?

I am suddenly obsessed with finding out what his name is. I’m thinking back to dinner, before the bar, before the booze, when Sandra introduced us. “This is my friend from work…” Galen? Garth?

I sit up slowly and scan the floor for his pants. Surely he has an I.D. in his wallet, right? I’ll just slip it out and have a look before he wakes up. He’ll never know.

My body is achy with the familiar feeling of having been overly intimate. My thighs are sore, and my breasts are bruised from his excited love bites. I see a friggin’ hickey on the left one, right above the nipple, dammit! What is this? Junior High? Is he marking his territory? Does he think I’m his new girl?

Like HELL!

I hop out of the bed and start sorting through the clothing that has been haphazardly slung in all directions: my panties, my bra, his shirt, a stinky sock (definitely his). I can’t find the pants, and I’m beginning to get pissed that this slumbering, blanket-stealing, bed-hogging, no-named idiot is still in my house stinking up my air with his dirty laundry.

“Hey, Gavin,” I say to him, not bothering to whisper. I just want him to get up, get out and stay gone. I shove his shoulder with my fingertips, but he doesn’t move. “Graham…Grady…” I shove harder and then shake, but the oaf is still non-responsive. “Gordon.” I grab his shoulder now and pull him toward me onto his back.

Somebody is screaming like a maniac. My hand waving in front of me is flinging blood everywhere. I want it off me, but it’s not coming off. A warm gush between my legs lets me know that my bladder has finally been relieved. I won’t have to bother with the bathroom. Apparently, this is just as good a place as any.

Gunther is lying in his back staring into nothing, and the blood is everywhere. I don’t know how I didn’t smell it before. I need to vomit. His neck is just a massive black hole. Somebody has slashed it. I don't think it was me. My stomach heaves and I retch onto the floor, not onto Griff. He’s suffered enough. No need to add vomit to his list of woes.

“You WHORE!” That hiss comes from the corner of the room. One of my Grandma Hazel’s upholstered conversation chairs sits in that corner. I usually toss my jacket and my briefcase there after a long workday, just before I kick off my shoes. Right now, there’s a woman sitting there with a shotgun pointed right at me.

“You think you meant anything to my Gabriel?” she whispers. I don’t know why she’s whispering.

“Who's Gabriel?” I ask, confused. I've never met a Gabriel in my life. What the fuck is she talking about?

BOOM!

I’m not dead. I’m not.

 I AM NOT DEAD!

Aw shit. I am dead.

It’s not the kind of dead that you can come back from either. My chest is stinging on the ragged edges of the hole that used to be my heart. Crimson red seems to be the new black. I won’t be slinking back into life anytime today.

I am fully, undeniably dead.