Gun. Bam. Gone. Not yet. Still lingering. The taste of copper, the taste of salt. A weight, in her arms. Limp. The weight moves to her chest. Blood on her chest. Blood on her hands. The air is hot, burning. Voices dance around. Blood. Something shrieks. Blood.  Her mother knew. She feels him move away. She knew. A hole. An endless hole. Screaming. Her screaming. Her screaming in the past, through the past, into the present. She’s screaming-

Tiffany Williams wakes sitting up right, every muscle in her body tense, ready to run or to fight. For a moment her mind seems to be frozen, unsure of where she is or what she’s doing. Then it all comes back in a flash, and she lies back down with a sigh.

She looks at the alarm on the table beside her, and sighs again. 3 am. To early to get up, but based on past experiences, she won’t be getting much sleep either. She turns on a light and grabs a worn book from the end table, hoping a couple pages will knock her out.
Bam. Copper. Hot. The dream starts to come back, vague feelings and images. It doesn’t matter; she knew what it was about. It’s the same one that always wakes her up in a panic.

She tries to push the memories back, to concentrate on the words before her. But they float away, not strong enough to keep her attention. She feels that weight in her chest, heavier than anything she’s ever known. It wants to pull her down, back into that time and place. She gets out of bed, hoping that a glass of water will distract her.

Walking by her dresser, she notices a picture that’s been sitting there for years. She picks it up, fingering the worn edges. She barely ever pays it any mind, but tonight it fascinates her. It’s of her and two of her sorority sisters, sitting on the deck of their old Greek house. They’re holding drinks, wearing short shorts and bikini tops, smiling joyous smiles. Nothing would ever go wrong in these girls’ lives. They’re rich, and beautiful, and never had a moment of real pain. She looks around her little room, with the paint chipping off the walls, the worn bed and the stained sheets, and the discount clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor. And she looks in the mirror, something she so often tries to avoid. The girl in the picture is tanned with long luxurious blonde hair. The girl in the mirror has lost that tan, and her hair is flat and unkempt. But the eyes are the biggest difference. They were once so happy and expressive.
Now they look back at her with pain and a deep sadness. So few years have passed, but so much has changed. So much…..

——————————————————————————————————————————————————-
“Tiffany, you bitch!” Ashley scolds, topping off the girls drinks.

“What? I just said what we all were thinking.” Tiffany sits back in her chair, letting the afternoon sun warm her legs.

“Hell yeah you did.” Brittany says, taking a generous drink of her margarita. “That skank has gotten fat.”

“You know she used to have an eating disorder.” Ashley says.

“And from the look of her rolls, she shouldn’t have given it up.” Tiffany says, earning a laugh from Brittany.

“You guys….” Ashley whines.

“Fuck off Mother Theresa, and pass me my drink.” Tiffany says. Ashley does, although still wearing a pouty face. “Fine, I’ll send an “I’m sorry” cake. She should enjoy that.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Oh, c’mon, Ash, smile, you know you want to. Remember that top she wore? Remember how it was all red and she looked like a sausage?”

Ashley cracks a reluctant smile. “You’re going to burn in hell.”

Brittany finishes off her drink. “Who isn’t?” She waggles the empty cup in front of Ashley.

“Jesus,” Ashley says, topping it off. “Alcoholic much?

“It’s better than being addicted to cock, like some people.” Brittany says.

Tiffany smiles. “Hun, it’s not an addiction if it improves your life.”

“You still seeing Roger, Tiff?” Ashley asks.

“Nope. Picture time!” Tiffany says eager to change the subject. The other girls groan as they gather around her, and the camera she pulls from her purse.

“Why do you always want pictures of us sitting on our asses, doing nothing?” Brittany asks.

“Because, ladies, you’ll find that when you’re old and fat and addicted to painkillers, the times of you doing nothing were the best times of your life.”

Brittany plasters on a fake smile as Tiffany holds the camera out in front of them.

“Pretty deep for a girl who never goes to philosophy class.”

“That’s why they call me the smart one.”

Ashley looks at her. “You’re the smart one?”

Click.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————

Tiffany can’t help but to smile at the picture of them. The girl in that picture is long gone and it’s better that way, but like an old friend, she some times misses her. Everything was so much easier back when she was around.

Tiffany moves way from the dresser and the memories, into the hall, and a couple steps into the kitchen. This place is a hole in the wall, she can’t deny that, but she loves it. It’s all that’s left of him. Everything here radiates with the past, their past. The squeaks in the couch remind her of the first time they made love in this apartment. The old TV reminds her of the lazy Sunday’s, and cuddling, and watching mind numbing golf games. The ash tray by the sink reminds her of the first time they met. It reminds her of that night, and how everything changed…

———————————————————————————————————————————————————-

“Goddamn it!” Tiffany yells, trying desperately for her dying lighter to give her one last flicker of life. She’s standing outside of a club, a headache forming from the endless beat of the techno music pounding its way outside, and all she wants is to light the damn cigarette hanging from her mouth.

“Work, you piece of-“

“Need a light?” A hand with a tiny flame appears in front of her face.

“Great, thanks” She says as she takes a drag.

“No problem.” The lighter disappears into the man’s pocket, and Tiffany takes him in, fairly unimpressed. He’s slightly overweight, with a beard, which is never attractive. He’s wearing an untucked flannel shirt, and old jeans with holes in the knees. The fact that he even has the gall to talk to her, with her thousand dollar dress, and professionally done hair, is disconcerting.

“You come here often?” He asks.

She scoffs. “Could you be anymore lame?”

“Why?” He asks with a puzzled expression that irritates her.

“”Do I come here often?” Isn’t that, like, the oldest pick up line in the book?”

“Oh, I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m just seeing what kind of people would subject themselves to this kind of hell on a regular basis.”

Tiffany tries to mimic to his puzzled expression to see how he likes it. “You’re here.”

“Ah, I was dragged here by a friend, or ex-friend I should say. This place is gross.”

Tiffany takes the last drag of her cigarette, and stomps it out with her heel, happy to end this conversation. “This place is awesome. Anyways, thanks for the light. See you.”

She begins to walk away, but he catches up with her. “Hey, do you want to go someplace that is actually awesome?”

She stops. “I thought you weren’t trying to pick me up.”

“I’m not, I just feel bad for you.” He says this with a smug smile that makes her blood rise.

“Well great! Let’s go! I love following strange men to second locations. It always makes for a hilarious police report.”

“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about me.” He reaches into her open purse, and pulls out a black box the size of a brick. “Is this a taser?’

“Yes!” She says, grabbing it back. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“You have a taser?”

“My dad makes me carry it around.”

“Your dad makes you carry around a taser?”He leans forward, speaking in a whisper. “Is your dad in the mafia?”

She pushes him back. “No, he just knows that creepy guys with bad facial hair like to prey on pretty little girls.”

“I don’t think you’re pretty.”

“What?” She asks, ashamed that she actually cares.

“Don’t get me wrong, you could be. But right now you look like every other in that place. Kind of bland.”

“If I’m so bland, why do you want to take me to this “awesome” bar?”

“A hunch,” He says, walking forward. “You coming?”

“No.”

“C’mon, tomorrow morning you’ll have a story. Do you want it to be the same one you’ve told a million times, about how you got wasted off of vodka and waters, and the DJ “totally” played that song you love, or do you want it to be that you met a complete stranger, and he took you to the best bar in the city, with the best live music in the state?”

Tiffany looks him over again, reconsidering her first impression. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie.”

“Well, “Charlie” you try anything and this” She takes the taser out of her purse “goes for the crotch.”

“Fair enough.” He holds out her hand for her. She walks up next to him, swatting the hand way.

“There will be no touching.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Tiffany finishes her water, putting the glass in the sink. She never asked what his hunch was. Was it that he knew she had grown sick of her rich bitch life? Did he know that she could be better than that? Or was he just trying to shock a pretty girl into a date? Either way, it had worked. That night had been as amazing as he had promised, as were the numerous dates afterwards. And through the months of dating, she saw a change take place in herself. She saw less of her friends, and stopped going to her parents for handouts. She found a job, working at a dive bar, and made friends there. They weren’t the type of people she would normally hang out with, and she loved them for that.

Tiffany walks into her living room, looking at the phone. It was Saturday….well, Sunday morning. Her mother would call today, to see how she was doing, hinting about taking some money, and then out right begging. It had become their little tradition. Her mom said that Charlie changed her, but she didn’t think that was true. She think Charlie allowed her to change, made it okay. But then again, her mom had said that her relationship with Charlie would end badly, and she had been right about that.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————-
“My mom thinks you’re going to break my heart.” They were on the country road, driving back from some B and B. For some reason, the fact that they both thought going to a B and B would be the worst experience of their lives intrigued them to go. How many times can you experience the worst thing ever? They had found out it wasn’t that bad, just boring after you get past the bed and breakfast parts.

“Is that right?”

“Hmm…” Tiffany says. “She thinks you’re just in it for the money.”

Charlie laughs, taking his eyes off the road and looking at her. “Hun, I saw your bank statements. What money?”

“Oh, don’t you know? My chosen poverty is a phase. In a few months we’ll be living in a mansion, sunning by the pool. It sounds pretty great.”

“Doesn’t it? Can we hire some poor people to clean up after us, and make fun of?”

“I insist.” She smiles, imagining Charlie in a fancy suit, socializing with her dad’s friends.

He puts her hand on his thigh and gives a little squeeze. “Move in with me.”

She coughs, torn out of her little fantasy. “What?”

“Move in with me.” He repeats, this time staring ahead at the road.

“Charlie….” She says, with no idea where to go next.

“Why not? That’s where we are going, isn’t it? Why not just get there a little faster?”

“I…..yes.”

“Yes?” He says, looking at her and smiling.

“Yes!”

“Yes!” He leans over and kisses her.

“Charlie,” she starts swatting at his arm. “The road. You’re going to get us killed.”

He laughs. “Never.”

————————————————————————————————————————————————
Tiffany lies back down in her bed, preparing to force sleep to come. They had been so happy. But it was too quick, they never had a chance. They want her to move on, they say it has been two years, it’s time to let go. But they will never know. How do you let go of the perfect time of your life? How do you just move on? And, more importantly, why would you want to? Tears well up in
her eyes. They never had a chance.

“Goodnight Charlie.” She whispers as she falls asleep.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

They’re walking down an alley, its 2 am, and dark. She stumbles a bit, a little drunk.

“Charlie, I don’t like this. Let’s stay on the street.”

“Baby,” he says, giving her hand a little squeeze. “You have your big, strong protector here, and that little taser of yours. We’re fine.”

“I’m serious. Let’s go.” She starts to pull him back, but it’s too late. He’s already here.

He’s here, and he’s going to kill Charlie. She knows this because she lives this every night of her life.He’s skinny, with deeply scarred skin and wild eyes. He holds a gun at them, it’s shaking violently. “Give me your wallet.”

Charlie put his hands up, trying to appease him. “It’s cool man, it’s cool.”

Tiffany stares at the gun, paralyzed. It’s the most massive thing she’s even seen. It’s so much bigger than the man who’s holding it.
“I said give me your wallet!”

Charlie nods, reaching down into his pockets. “It’s not there.”

“Don’t trying anything funny!”

“I’m not, I don’t have it.” He turns to her. He speaks the last words he’ll ever say: “Sweetie, I gave it to you. It’s in your purse.”

During her daydreams, this is when she does something incredibly brave. This is when she rushes him, pushing the gun away. This is when she saves everything. But this is not a daydream, she has no control here. This is her nightmare.

She reaches into her purse, accidentally revealing the taser.

“What the fuck is that?” The man yells. She can barely see him behind the gun.

“It’s…it’s….” Her own words choke her.

There are noises from behind, people stupid enough to come down this alley. This is when she kills Charlie.

“Help!” She screams. “Help us.”

“Shut the fuck-“ His gun goes off, possibly unintentionally. The man certainly looks surprised. The bullet rips through Charlie’s chest.

Gone. Not yet. Still lingering. The taste of copper, the taste of salt. A weight, in her arms. Limp. The weight moves to her chest. Blood on her chest. Blood on her hands. The air is hot, burning. Voices dance around. Blood. Something shrieks. Blood.  Her mother knew. She feels him move away. She knew. A hole. An endless hole. Screaming. Her screaming. She never stops screaming.

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