He rolls off the bed, grabs his pants and heads into the bathroom. She lies still, staring up at the ceiling, listening to him rinse the slick scent of her off. She is cold, but can’t bring herself to move. She can’t remember how she got here, a place she promised herself she would never be again. She only meant to come up to give him the money and tell him she was done. With everything, for good.
“Get up, you’ve got to get out of here,” he tosses her dress onto the bed.
“I thought maybe I could stay for a bit.” She wanted to talk, to explain.
“We are not going through this again. When it’s time to go, you go. Jesus.”
She slides her feet to the floor, turning her back to him. She does not want him to see her cry. She slips into her dress, licking her fingers to rub at a stain near the hem. She moves closer to the window, standing in front of the desk Dean has currently claimed as his base of operations. It is littered with mail. Some already open and empty, others waiting, full, for that quick slice of the knife to spill their illicit contents into his hands.
“Lana, you don’t need to be here,” his tone is brusque, hard. It hurts her ears.
She runs her hands over the edge of the desk, buying herself time before she can safely look him in the eye. She turns to face him. The room is suffocating, there is no space between them.
“Why are you such a bastard?”
He looks at her coldly, “I will pretend that you did not say that. You will leave now. And you will come back when I tell you to.”
“I MATTER, GOD DAMN IT!”
There is a single moment where they are both silent, eyes locked, letting the aftershock roll over them. It is broken though, as Dean takes a halting step backwards. He looks confused, and he clutches at his stomach. His hands come away a startling red. She takes a deep breath and moves to catch him.
He grunts, low and angry, as he slides down on the letter opener again.
“You can’t keep pretending that I’m not real once I walk out that door,” Lana whispers in his ear as she lowers him to the floor.
“You crazy bitch,” he spits, the words as hot as the blood she wipes off her face.
“No. No, I was so good to you. You don’t get to treat me this way.”
She plunges the blade into him a third time, pushing her weight behind it, sinking it into his chest. She struggles to pull it free. She can see nothing but blood. Hear nothing but his groans. They sound so similar to the ones he makes when she is lying beneath him, willing and open for him.
“I am a good girl,” she cries as she hacks, indiscriminately now, at his face and hands as he tries feebly to protect himself. “I was your good girl, you were supposed to give a fuck.”
Sobbing, Lana pushes herself up off the floor, away from his brokenness. She crawls up onto the bed, the sheets sticking to her hands. Collapsing against the headboard, she throws the blade away from her. It clatters across the face of the desk, spilling the envelopes to the floor and exposing the DayDream to the sunlight filtering through the greasy window.
There is nothing but the sound of harried breathing, the stench of iron and the color blue.
She moves towards it slowly, peeling herself off the bed. It is beautiful, the slight shimmer. It will make everything better. She tears open the closest bag, squeezing its contents onto her skin.
The DayDream is cool, refreshing, but she doesn’t like the dark purple hue it has cast on her hands and wrists. She closes her eyes and massages the smooth slick of blood and drugs. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes until it takes effect and she can wash herself of this.
Lana wanders into the bathroom, her hands still running one over the other. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she stops. There is blood on her face, streaked through her hair. It is caked on her hands and arms. Sprayed across her dress. She is motionless, as though she is waiting for him to get up and leave the room so she can begin to cleanse herself of his shortcomings.
The dress comes off slowly, clinging to her in places. She leaves it in a puddle on the tile floor. Thinking Dean may have kept extra shirts, she turns to leave. That is when she sees the marks he left on her back. From earlier in the afternoon, long rakes down the soft skin as he dug into her. She traces her fingers over them gently. She loved him, once, she thought.
Dropping to her knees, she spews bile and acid across the floor. It drips from her nose and lips as she chokes, trying to breath. She retches again, trying to make it to the toilet, crawling through the brackish pool of expelled stomach contents. Her throat and nasal cavity burn. Five minutes, just five more minutes and everything will be better.