Flash Fiction Friday!

Wasted

by Dylan White

     He looked at the body laying next to him, wondering what he had done.

     He couldn’t remember much from the night before.  He had no idea where he was or how he got there.  Or who this lifeless woman was in bed with him, her pretty blue eyes staring dead ahead.

     Panic set in.

He considered just getting the hell out of there.  Then he realized there might be witnesses.  Not to her actual murder, but certainly other people saw them leave the bar together.  And it was possible a neighbor or two saw them come back to her apartment.  But he was the last one to see her alive.  And the first one to find her dead.  He would be the prime suspect.  No, the best course of action would be to call the --

     Snort.

     She snored and shifted in her sleep.

     She’s alive! he thought to himself excitedly. She just ... slept with her eyes open.  Ew.  That’s almost creepier than her being dead.  Almost.

He dropped back on the bed, relieved.  She snored again and rolled over, kicking off the sheets.  She was naked and so was he.  Now he just wished he could remember sleeping with her.  That, and her name.

It was going to be really awkward when she woke.  She would probably remember his name and he’d just be drawing a blank.  He didn’t want to look like that much of an asshole.

     Again, he thought about bailing.  But that would make him look like an even bigger asshole.  Not like they ever had to see each other again.  Given how hot he thought she was, however, he definitely wanted to see her again.  So he had to figure out her name before she woke.

     Carefully, he slipped out from under the sheets and searched for his clothes.  They were strewn about the room.  It must have been one wild night.  Maybe I took pictures, he hoped.  But he couldn’t find his phone.  Or his pants.

     His head throbbed as he pulled on his shirt and underwear.  There had to be something laying around that would at least give him a clue.  Searching the room, he found her phone.  Her name has to be in there, he thought.  Scrolling through her contacts, he realized what a dumb idea that was.  Who puts their own name in their own phone?

     Then it occurred to him that maybe they exchanged phone numbers the night before.  All he had to do was find his name and call his own phone.  Her name would pop up on his caller ID.  Brilliant!  And he’d find his phone.

     Luckily, he did find his number and pressed ‘call.’

     His phone rang in the other room.  What it was doing out there, he had no idea, but he hurried to get it before the sound woke her up.  He also didn’t want her to hear that his ringtone was “Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears.

     His great idea didn’t pan out.  He dug his phone out of the pocket of his pants, which were thrown over her TV.  Her picture appeared on his phone display -- a picture he must have taken at the bar -- but no name.  Unless her name was “Unknown.”  And that wasn’t likely.

     Looking around, he found some of her mail.  But her name probably wasn’t “Resident” either.  She didn’t even have any magazines or anything identifying her.  Then he discovered her purse.

     He hesitated a second before going through it.  There wasn’t a good explanation as to why he was rummaging through her purse if she woke up and caught him doing it.  But when he heard her stirring in the bedroom, he didn’t see another option.  Fishing for her license, he came up short.  So he dumped the contents on the kitchen table.

     All of her crap clattered loudly and he sorted through it quickly.  He figured he’d just tell her he knocked it over.  Finally, he found her ID.  He stared at it for a second -- she even looked good in her driver license picture.  Turned out, she was older than he thought she was.  He didn’t care.  Most importantly, though, he got her name.

     It was such a simple name, he couldn’t believe he forgot it.  He returned to the bedroom, hoping to slip back in bed with her for just a little while longer.

     The gunshot was deafening.  It was the last thing he heard before the bullet went through his brain.  He was dead before he hit the floor.

     She held the gun on him a moment longer, making sure he was dead.  Her heart pounded in her chest and her hands shook as the adrenaline coursed through her body.

     When she woke up alone, she didn’t remember when or how she got home.  She had so much to drink the night before, the whole thing was a blur.  All she knew was she could hear an intruder in her apartment, rooting through her things.  Someone must have broken in, she thought.  So she fumbled under her bed and pulled out her pistol, ready for when he came for her.  She gasped when she recognized his face.

     She looked at the body laying next to her, wondering what she had done.

© 2013 Dylan White