Psparkles Psychosis (part II)

Wind whipped like a remorseless smack across Psparkles face. Her gait quickened. As she navigated the swathes of human swine- the sidewalk felt too small. Crowds had never been easy. Hoodie pulled up over her head, she kept her gaze trained on only the ground directly in front of her next footstep.

It took about half an hour to reach her favorite post-therapy haunt, a side street dive bar perfumed by a pungent mix of sweat, stale cigarettes, moldy carpet and spilled spirits.

To Psparkles, there were many appreciable aspects about this place. The heavily frosted glass front window and dimly lit interior made for a timewarp of perpetual night. Dark had always brought with it familiarity and comfort. She coveted this sense of security.

Pint of dark beer and a double shot of whiskey. Her order never changed.

Anything to keep her off the damn ceiling. Anything to keep her level.

Nobody ever occupied the booth on the back wall, furthest from the door.

That’s why she always chose it. Sitting at the bar was never going to happen. Just hearing the wheezy breath of old smokers and smelling the successful journey of self putrefaction they were on was enough to keep her far away. Nevermind that someone would probably try to talk to her. That simply wasn’t a situation she was willing to put herself in.

The grizzled, old bartender brought the drinks to her booth with a quiet nod. He knew who she was, if not what. Psychopathy aside, every week she tipped generously. He appreciated that.

Her first round polished off with impressive speed and determination, she immediately ordered another. The more whiskey she drank the less her head hurt. The voices seemed to quiet down- sometimes even take a sweet, brief hiatus. They might sleep- but only to awaken shrieking loudly every time.

The bar door swung open, casting accusatory sunlight, unwelcome, into the bar. This was a sanctuary for despair and doubt- sunlight earns no seat at this establishment..

The offending patron sauntered in and took a stool. The smattering of squint eyed drunks barely took notice, transfixed on an ancient TV behind the bar.

Psparkles misliked the feel of his presence from the moment she felt it. She surveyed the unfamiliar character, taking stock of his leather trench coat, biker-style boots, and unnecessary sunglasses.

He was avoiding someone, or perhaps, like her, everyone.

Her glimmering brown eyes darted about the dungeon-like room. She felt protected in her shadowy back corner. It crossed her mind that she may not be the only one with problems in this place. She cracked a grin and scoffed into her half-empty pint glass.

Then he was right on top of her. Or at least, it felt that way. Trench Coat from the bar had made the poor decision to surprise Psparkles with a table side visit. He was an unusually tall man, and she had to look up to see his face. Feelings of discomfort and disdain stirred within her. This would not end well.

“May I sit?”

His query sounded deceptively innocent, almost believably harmless.

“I was just leaving.” She replied icily.

Psparkles began to scoot sideways out of the booth when the man sat down, his imposing body blocking her in.

“Aww c’mon now Darlin, you can’t stay for one more round?”

Her answer did not come in verbal form, rather serrated steel was chosen as her method of communication.

Switchblade drawn swiftly, Psparkles sent the knife spelunking into the joker’s abdominal cavity. In and out. In and out. Twist. She maneuvered the weapon deftly and waited until she felt his torn guts warmly oozing onto her hands before stopping.

Nimbly she sidled over his body, and propped it up against same wall he’d momentarily trapped her against. Not one around them seemed to take notice the hushed murder had even occurred.

The inevitable blood staining on her clothes was undetectable in low light. Psparkles always wore black, head to toe. Leaving the victim in her favorite back booth to which she had regrettably assured herself no return, her footsteps were measured and unrushed. Slapping a crinkled twenty down on the counter, with a nod to the barman, she pulled up her hood. A slight smile graced her mouth, and she walked outside, into the street.

Only Psparkles was unaware of whom she’d just killed- and how it would hit her like a brick when she found out.