Page 58 of Mayfly

This isn’t me.

I never hesitate.

With a scream that dredges up every last bit of hatred, denial, and self loathing within me, I pull the trigger.

The bullet flies down through the abyss between the floors, and the shot echoes around and around like a deafening punch to my stomach, my head, my heart.

With the last bit of indignation I have left, I throw the gun after the bullet and watch it smash into the concrete below.

With the next step, my life will change.

This is it.

Today could be the day I finally get my wish, and the irony is palpable.

One day—one fucking day.

I step into the doorway, gloved hands by my side, shoulders back, chin lowered.

There’s silence. From him. From me.

I’m still standing.

There’s a gun, but it’s not pointed at me.

Rage is all I feel. All I see.

Cocky, like this is just another ordinary day at the office, I saunter in, completely unphased.

“Good morning, Marius. If I’d known you’d be in town, we could have had breakfast together.”

For a split second, the same—so dark brown they’re almost black—eyes that looked back at me on my first day in juvie, brighten. Like he almost believes me. Like it’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear.

“Shut up, Curren.”

“Why?” I shrug, stepping further into the room. “Especially when I was about to tell you how good you look.”

I set my sights on the hole in the opposite wall where a window used to be, and start unbuttoning my jacket. As I walkpast Marius, I spin to face him and shrug off the blazer before continuing towards the window. His body follows me, then just his head when he can’t turn anymore without moving his gun. And credit to him, his hand never falters.

“You’ve changed so much in the past five years I barely recognized you,” I tell him as I lay my folded jacket over the window ledge. Sliding my hands into the tight pockets of my trousers, I lean casually against the wall as I look him up and down. “They must have some decent gyms in Bucharest. Or you used some of that money I made you to build your own.”

Even from as far away as I am, I can see pride written all over his face. He never was good at hiding his feelings.

“They did a decent job on your nose, and…” I raise my right hand to rub along my jaw. “Your chin too? Much less like an ugly motherfucker. Some might even say you’re handsome.”

Jet black hair that once grew in every direction now hangs long and straight down to his shoulder blades. The top half is pulled up, and somehow, both perfectly neat and appealingly messy at the same time. With a jerk of his head, he flicks away some wayward strands that have fallen across his face and he smiles. There is some ego in it, but he’s also thankful.

His life hasn’t been strawberries and unicorn farts either.

Becoming just another number in the young offenders program was the best possible scenario for a trafficked tween who stabbed the babushka in charge of his brothel with a fork in each hand, while she slept. He claimed asylum, ‘appeared’ to follow the rules, and applied for citizenship when he was released. He is a bona fide cunt-fire of a person, but he’s also me. And I’m him. And I can’t help but let him have his moment.

He stares at me for so long, so unyielding, that soon my eyes are stinging from matching his. I want to blink, to look down by his side, to know if I really do see red or if it’s just my overactive imagination.

“You look good, too,” Marius finally says when he believes he has control of the room.

“But that’s nothing new.”

“I still hate your confidence.”

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