THUGLIT Issue Four Read Online Free PDF Page B

But Tom was not as drunk as I thought he was. That, or his adrenaline overcame the combination of heat and the half-bottle of Bulleit he downed after stumbling to the hotel room less than an hour before. I thought about wiping down the walls but they would dry, leaving little sign of struggle. It's not like I slashed his aorta and he sprayed crimson all over the bathroom.
    Not like my father.
    I picked Tom out of the crowd around one of the many craps tables at the Bellagio. I'd just dropped off three thousand to the bookie's men and received a black eye for the effort. I hadn't stepped foot on a casino floor in years, and yet I'd been on two in less than twenty-four hours. I felt the family itch coursing through my veins, an addiction not only to the game, but the environment, the shows, the crowds. All gilded over a rotten core.
    In five minutes of my eyeing him from across the table and cheering with the raucous crowd, he had won over three grand. Tom was well into his fifties. His voice hinted at years of smoke-filled rooms, and when I squeezed in close to him, he smelled of cheap body spray and bourbon. He handed me a free Jack and Diet from a cart, clinking glasses. Cocking his head to the side, he put a hand on my lower back and told me my black eye was cute in a "you remind me of my daughter" kind of way. His eyes crinkled when he smiled. He could have been a father of five but I convinced myself he was a bad man. Tom had won over twenty grand last night and the casino had given him one of their top suites for the remainder of the week. Three hours later, I had him drunkenly cashing chips and heading for the room.
    I feel the night of free drinks squirm in my stomach as I stand dripping in the bathroom. For a brief moment I feel faint and need to brace myself on the counter as the scene takes its toll. Tom's lifeless body reminds me of Doug, minus the slashed wrists and blood. Doug had done it right—doped himself up and taken a pair of my nice scissors deep and horizontal—not like the paper cuts you see in the movies. I found him three days ago on a scorching Friday during my lunch break from the hair salon. The air conditioning had been turned to MAX and I hurried to crank it back down. I wasn't made of money then and I'm sure as hell not now.
    I froze in the doorway when I saw Doug in the bath. In my head, I was packing a bag and sprinting back to work, but I found myself kneeling down next to the tub. The blood was so dark that it was all I could take in at first. Then the slow drip of the faucet, matching every few beats of my thudding heart. I studied his pale face, the dull burst capillaries, his blond wispy hair. I imagined that he had left an explanation in a folded note on the sink: black ink on fancy cream-colored paper, like he'd really prepared for the moment.
    I wanted the note to say:
    Sorry for coming drunk to elementary school Father-Daughter Day.
    Sorry for never buying you new clothes, Mirna Foul-smell.
    Sorry for being such a fucking embarrassment .
    But I probably wouldn't have gotten to read it anyway.
    When he fluttered his eyelids, I yelped and pulled my hands to my chest. I couldn't stop the tears. I had nothing but anger left for this man and yet I'd lost control. I wept as he struggled to speak in a raspy voice so hoarse it sounded like he had been lost in the desert for days. But I didn't listen. I didn't want to hear any of it. Our father/daughter relationship had hit rock bottom and I wouldn't risk a whisper burying me deeper. All the good memories that I'd ever have were locked tight inside me. Nothing could change the addict before me, not even death. So when he mouthed, I'm sorry , I put two hands on his chest until he was under and all I could see were my arms disappearing into the murky red. Then I lost what little toughness I had left, along with my breakfast, on the floor. The wooden bat to the stomach when the bookie's men found me didn't help either. I guess in my shock I