POV: Joe
It took me several minutes to pick the right clothes… for nothing. It wasn't the kind of date I'd expected: you messaged first and told me to meet at six, and then we only spoke for about fifteen minutes while we walked. We didn't even make it to the restaurant.
Your friend Peach called; you made an apologetic face and told me your friend was missing and you were worried. I waited with you until you climbed into a taxi, and that's when I understood I had to take things more seriously. You'd spoken with Peach a few hours earlier about Benji not showing up lately and not answering your messages.
Even though it was only a few minutes, I felt incredible with you. I listened while you told stories from high school and how your writing began—how teachers fawned over your skill.
You confessed you'd tried to look me up on social media. I don't have any: they're a huge liability, they expose you. I don't like that vulnerability.
After we parted, I went back to the basement. I had to take action: we can't move forward with Benji in the way.
"This is unfair; if I'd known you were going to quiz me I would have read the book," he said.
"I'm serious. Look— you say you read certain books, but you probably only know the synopsis. You didn't even read The Road by Cormac McCarthy." I wasn't disappointed; in a way I'd expected this from him.
Benji paced the cage, running a hand over the back of his neck.
"I get it— you're a fraud," I said, closing the notebook and setting it on the table with the blue pen.
"You know what? Give me that fucking book and I'll read it now, you sadistic prick." He started barking.
I moved closer and watched him. He kept circling; his face was paling and I could guess why. Now I understand, Beck: you think this guy is all you deserve.
"You look a little pale." I put my hands in my pockets.
I found Benji's anxiety almost interesting.
"You… you stole my drugs!" He ran a hand through his hair and kept circling.
His panic began to annoy me.
"A few hours ago you told me they weren't even for you…" I clicked my tongue; he stopped and looked up.
"Alright, fine— they're mine, happy? I need them; I don't do drugs more than three days… I'm quitting…" he babbled.
"Okay… if you're quitting—" I pointed with my index finger while my other hand rummaged in my pocket for the small bag of cocaine. "Here."
I opened one flap of the cage; it's a one-way mechanism: if one side's open, the other can't be. I started sprinkling a little of Benji's "sugar" into the tray and, in his desperation, he tried to open the other flap. I had to explain how it worked.
When I shut my side, he opened his immediately and shoved his nose in, practically throwing himself to his knees. After he inhaled what was on the tray, it didn't take long before he collapsed.
Once he hit the floor, I knew what I had to do to make you forget him, Beck. He was out cold; I climbed into the cage, grabbed a pair of pink panties, pressed them to his mouth and took several photos—making sure to cover the blood on his forehead. I'd also bought new underwear; I didn't want to soil the ones I'd stolen from you or risk you recognizing them.
I posted the picture on Twitter: a few party hashtags and some trashy lines. Then I got another idea. I went to the table where I keep my book-repair tools, cleaned it off and arranged several bottles—soda, wine, beer; left a half-crushed pack of cigarettes and some broken stubs; in the corner I placed the little bag of coke. I photographed it all and added the shots to the post. That should calm you for a while and, at the same time, lower your opinion of him.
Can you believe his phone password was LEANNA? He doesn't care about you in the slightest. Scrolling his chats, besides some messages from you, there were friends—and, above all, various girls: photos and sex videos with several of them. You're never on his mind; he doesn't worry about you.
Think about what I told you before. His phone password is another girl's name. Beck. My God.