Henry had been waiting for hours and hours for her to regain consciousness, but there was no sign of life from her limp body. He had dragged her into a little crevice under the bridge and propped her between two large boulders, out of sight of any homeless men who sought shelter there. The air was putrid with the smell of decaying fish, turning his stomach, but he reached for a second beer, then a third, then a fourth, shattering the tops on rocks and gulping down the bitter brown liquid.
He wondered if, this time, she were actually dead. He didn't have to nerve to go and look but pushed the thought out of his mind. Instead, he thought about Jake, whose corpse was probably stranded at the bottom of the river or washed up on bank outside the city. And if somehow he had made it out alive, the cabby would be waiting. It was a foolproof plan, he thought to himself. And one that left him all alone with poor Mary Jane.
He knew he was drunk, and he didn't know if he would remember this tomorrow. It was like Jekyll and Hyde, he thought to himself, staring at the muddy water that lapped the river's edge. Except that he hated his life, hated everything about it, and the only way out was through Mary Jane. He wouldn't let himself feel the guilt. If she was dead, he'd sell her body, and if not--he let his fantasies run wild for a few minutes as he imagined all the things he'd do to her. In his mind he heard her screaming and he liked the sound, wanted it to surround him, to empower him.
It was a nasty game they were playing, he decided, kicking some sand over a patch of blood near her head. But it was her own fault for asking to play.