Free The Devil's Monologue by Kimberly Fuller

smeared
unnaturally together, creating an alarming high pitched screech in
my ears, as Harvey's jagged little fist smashed under my chin. The
unsteadiness of my feet grew ten fold as I stumbled again and fell
flat. Blood began spewing inside my mouth in thick globs of salty
goo.
The tingling sensation in my feet was
finally beginning to fade. Harvey hovered over my fallen form. I
could feel the heat of his anger pulsating off his skin, warming my
own chilled bones. I coughed slightly, afraid I might be the one to
puke on his shoes this time.
“It's all over for you now, Asshole. I'm
going to fucking kill you,” he said gruffly before quickly stomping
away.
“Fuck,” I mumbled as I made a second
attempt to stand. My face was burning with pain, as was my head. As
I lurched my body off the ground the thunderous nausea could no
longer be stifled. I leaned out the door heavily, painting Ma's
dying rose bushes with stale booze and half digested pizza. My
mouth now tasted of bile and rust. Not a good breakfast combo. I
wiped away the remnants with the edge of my sleeve, not caring that
I missed and it streaked across my fingers instead.
A slight smile began to creep across my
face despite the thick sickness boiling at my insides. I'm sure the
average observer would have thought I had gone mad, but in truth, I
smiled because I had won. I had completely destroyed any chance of
my brother being better than me. I got the girl, the Old Man and I
were on even terms, and I had finally decided to get my shit
straight. It wouldn't be long before the final curtain call on our
differences would soon be drawn now that she was truly mine. I
couldn't wait to hear the applause on this freak show finale.
     
*
     
My naive ambition that day was almost
admirable when I think about it now. I sure wish I could have
stayed unwittingly stupid to truth like I had been in that moment.
Harvey should have done more than just punch me.

 
     
     
25
     
The Old Man was a damn drunk and Ma was
addicted to prescriptions. I had such wonderful role models, don't
you think? Although the green happy pills didn't always do it for
me, I enjoyed the taste of thick whiskey as it burned my throat. I
can't deny that I enjoyed the overwhelming feeling of superiority
it gave me as well. Especially on nights when the Old Man had a few
too many also. To me, drinking put us on even terms when he got
into a mood. Although, in my mind, it ended up being more of a
contest to see who was the bigger asshole. “Anything you can do, I
can do better”, that sort of shit. Of course, after I started
thinking of it as a competition, I was always in the lead, even
when I wasn't.
     
*
     
I tipped the glass bottle just enough to
let the dark liquid saunter past my lips and tickle my tongue. I
gave a slight shudder of both repulsion and ease as fire erupted in
my insides. I licked the remnants off of my lips as I waited for
the drink to take effect. Another long swig followed, lightening
the weight of the bottle even more. Another followed quickly after
that. I watched the ticking clock in my claustrophobic bedroom as I
counted the hot steps to Idontgiveafuckville.
Tick, tick, tick.
Thirty minutes. Although I had a good buzz,
it wasn't quite the escape from reality that I was looking for. I
clutched the near empty bottle, willing it to fill up again.
“This sucks,” I mumbled, gulping down the
last bit of whiskey in one quick swallow. My head swirling more and
more with each tick tock.
I gazed up at the dark green clock that
hung crookedly on my blank wall. It looked strange sitting up there
all alone.
    “You and me both, Clock,”
I said to the wall. Strange and
alone.
    I rocked my head from side
to side, the heaviness almost knocking me over, the dizziness
almost a relief from the constant pounding of thoughts in my head.
My bottle empty, the clock screaming at me, I stood up wearily and
reached for the door. Perhaps I should
have paced myself? I thought sadly. I
certainly