His clothes smell like a bathroom floor. There is a split up the back of his pant leg that has been stapled back together. He limps a little and his right foot is turned in. The multitude of strings, beads, charms, rosaries, medallions, threaded coins, braided hemp, et al. around his neck serve to keep his neck up when he’s too drunk to straighten his spine.
The city is dark and wet, and the noise is getting louder. He’s almost made it back to his block when he sees that man in the window again. The man with the feral stare, who hates him. The man who would laugh if he could just cut him. The man with the burning eyes that follows him and makes his life so hard. He stares back at the man and knows this is how it will be unless he gets rid of the man.
“You are mistaken, you’re not gon-gonna k-kill me mister.”
“Yes I am, and I’ll put that jacket back on you.”
“You are not gon-gonna c-cut me, I know you, I’ve seen you, y-you aren’t gon-gonna k-kill me or touch me. You’re too far away anyway-y. I’ve seen you before and I n-know this.”
“I will cut you deep, you’ll bleed so much and you’ll shit everywhere and that jacket will be back on you and they won’t be nice to you cause you’ll stink and try to fuck girls again like you did before you met me when I tried to cut you with a box knife.”
“I don’t t-touch anything anymore, I don’t fuck things, anything. I know you, I’ve seen you, y-you aren’t gon-gonna k-kill me. Mister, you are not me and you aren’t gonna-gonna k-kill me.”
He takes a box knife from his pocket and pulls up his left sleeve.
“You see this mister? This is preven-prevention, you won’t c-cut me I won’t let you.”
He puts the blade in his skin two or three times. Never slicing, just putting it in and taking it out. He is bleeding a lot and he groans a little. He feels a hot lump slide down his leg. He closes the knife and pulls his sleeve down again. He stares back at the man who stares at him.
The man is laughing like it’s the best joke he’s heard in months.
