Sexually Transmitted

I claw at my balls and watch as the dead skin becomes trapped in my unkempt fingernails. I breathe through a paper tube, packed with methanol and tar, and the ashes of third world children who knew too much. I unlatch the dashboard and loose shells spill on the floor and seat. I force down the gas and the turns don’t even matter anymore. The yellow lines are a blur of paint and asphalt. I watch the road with the corner of my eye. The car ride is painful to say the least. I try to avoid their wandering eyes. Before I only suspected what I am now certain of. What else would explain this discomfort? She can’t look in my eyes anymore. After the doctor I go straight home. No point going back to work. An unfamiliar truck is parked in front of my house.
She doesn’t hear the door. Maybe she does, maybe she’s putting on a show. The light reflects off her bronze skin and I can almost see my reflection on her back. My eyes lock on to the first bullet as it surprises the back of her skull. It pierces the bone and gets lost somewhere deep inside her brain. Blood splatters on his mask and handcuffs and for a while he doesn’t know where the fuck he is. The next bullet that removes three toes on his left foot reminds him whose bed he’s about to die in, and exactly whose wife he decided to fuck. Her limp corpse collapses on his convulsing body as he begs for mercy. Bits of brain slide down her hair and are absorbed by the pillow beside his face. I strike his face with the butt of my gun. He’s helpless to the attacks. The steel cuffs grind away at the joints that once connected his hands and arms. He’s shaking so fucking hard that his wrists begin to bleed.
By now im alternating blows between their bloody faces. Chunks of flesh find the floor; others cling to the walls while some stick to the nose of the gun. The blood and smoke fuse together releasing fumes that arouse my nasal cavity. I fire two more shots into his chest, purposely missing his heart and puncturing his left lung. I put a boot through several ribs and his screams mean nothing. Breathing is difficult for a man with one lung and demolished ribs. Technically this man is not dead, but at this point he has nothing left to live for. No logical reason to see his reflection in a mirror ever again. This we have in common. I remove his mask so he can see what a mess he’s in, and understand how similar we are. I press the gun to the side of my head and give him something to think about while he dies in my bed, smothered in my decomposing wife.
I open my eyes expecting to see hell, or a beautiful nurse mending my collapsed skull. Instead all I see is what’s left of her nude body draped over his. Confused at first, I realize my last bullet must have ripped trough his flesh and not mine. I leave him chained to the bed, submerged in his own blood and piss. I scratch my balls as I leave the house, but this time, it feels all right.