Not All Murders are Bloody

She got him drunk; he got her drunk. Tongues in throats, fingers at throats, growling. “I’ll have you,” he said.

“—- you,” she said.

“There’s people lose teeth, talking that way,” he said, and she kept quiet, but curled her fingers underneath the neck of his shirt — the pressure on his collarbone gave him a headache — and tore it away from him. Underneath he was hairless as a newborn.

“Dammit,” he said, and grabbed her hair, bent her head backwards to expose her throat. He bit at her, salty taste of her, blood knocking against his teeth. She trembled: her hands clenched into fists.

She cracked three of his ribs, bruised his eye, bloodied his nose, split his lip. He was more careful — the marks he left wouldn’t show, there’d be nothing there with which he could be charged, but she’d feel his hands on her for a week afterwards.

Afterwards, they slumped against the wall of the alley, slid down it, sat in the urine smell and he dripped blood onto the concrete. She laughed.


“Nothing. Just — this wasn’t what I expected.”

He spat a heavy missile against the side of the dumpster. “—- that,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “—- that.”