The story title will be explained if I ever get around to continuing this
“I thought that song said breaking up is hard to do. That shit was easy!”
As last words go, those probably wouldn’t have been David’s first choice. He had been the sort of man who would have dreamed of something a little more valiant and memorable.
Like: “Bring it on, motherfucker!”
Though, truthfully, had David ever found himself in a situation that called for such brashness - a knife fight in a dark, garbage strewn alley, for example; or maybe a sword fight with a masked ninja on a snowy mountain top - he would have just pissed himself and begged for mercy.
“I would like to thank the Academy…”
Dying in front of a global television audience - David definitely would have liked that. And just after being recognized for his brilliant talents to boot! He would have been the leading story on every newscast. His name would have gone from one end of the internet to the other and back again in a heartbeat, like some particularly foul virus.
“Yeah, baby! Come on, scream my name!”
There it is. His first choice for his final utterance, there can be no doubt.
It is equally assured that no woman had ever screamed his name and that he had never dared to demand it. He would have been laughed out of the bedroom if he had, covering his below average dick with a pillow as he searched for his clothes.
With gales of laughter ringing in his ears, he would have grown flustered, his pale cheeks burning red hot. He might have grabbed two tea towels from the kitchen - one for his front, the other for his skinny backside - and fled into the night. Preferably a very cold, very full of pedestrians, very windy night.
But none of that matters now. The eight inch cooking knife had slashed open his throat before any additional words could escape his thin lips. The blow had come from behind, the Always Smart, Never Dull™ blade slicing through his flesh as easily as it had diced tomatoes only moments earlier. Turning, David’s brown eyes had gone wide while his fingers attempted to hold the wound shut. To his credit, he hadn’t just given up - he actually tried to make it to the front door.
He didn’t make it, of course, but it was a noble effort.
No, none of those other options for his final words are worth thinking about at this particular moment. Right now, there are more pressing matters to attend to.
Like the body of David - my boyfriend of three years, my fiancé of two months, and my ex-fiancé of seven minutes and forty-eight seconds - which is sprawled across our… my living room floor. He’s taken precedence, bleeding all over the light grey carpet. The knife in my hand is doing likewise, only more slowly. It’s a hell of a mess, really.
And Denise and Eric are due to arrive for dinner and drinks in twenty-two minutes.
What’s a girl to do?