You

have one word left in you: “Help.”
And I do help you. I take my right hand and reach for your Da Vinci Code. I shove the book into my mouth and bite a few pages. I yank the book away and I toss it and grab the torn pages out of my mouth, wet with my saliva that you wanted so badly.
My last words to you: “Open up, Guinevere.”
I shove the pages into your mouth and your pupils slip around and your back arches. This is the sound of you dying. There are bones cracking—where, I do not know—and tear ducts in emergency mode—the tear of death seeps out of your left eye and onto your porcelain cheek and your eyes are fixated on somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience; your eyes have their silence. You are no better than a doll now and you do not react as the pages in your mouth take the blood that rises from your gullet.

“If this conversation were happening in a dark bar and we were both shitfaced it would be perfectly normal.”
Her name is Karen Minty and she bites her glossy lip and gets in my face. “And if your grandmother had balls she’d be your grandfather.”

“And sometimes, we don’t even need to do that because sometimes, we kill that mouse.”
Not this time.