Hello Mary

If I went my whole life without ever having to make a fucking phone call, it would be too soon.

Of course some news you just can’t text. Even tragedy deserves a little dignity, from time to time.

Hello Mary by Brian Alan Ellis

The sex sucked, Mary—shocker, right?—waited till Jimmy got off—I sure as hell wasn’t—so I could just roll over and light a cigarette, which I did, and so we lay there sharing it, thinking of what to say.

Finally I said, “You notice you didn’t kiss me once just then?” He shrugged, said he forgot, and I go, “Bet you kissed Jennifer when you fucked her.” Nothing. “What if I went out and sucked somebody’s dick?” He says, “Try it and we’ll see.” Smug fucker. So I take the cigarette from out his mouth and smash it into my wrist. Then he shakes me, he shakes me like hell, and I go, “I bet you still wanna fuck her! I bet you think of Jennifer when you’re fucking me!” He stops, gives me a dumb look, the retard, and starts shaking me again. “I was drunk,” he says. I go, “Not too drunk to stick your dick in her!”

I busted his nose. Then he shoved me, called me every goddamn name, and so I went to leave and, get this, he starts crying! You believe that little bitch? I say, “Aw, poor baby want Mommy?” So he gets a handful of hair and sends me across the room. Then he knocked me around. I screamed my head off till he stopped, then put my clothes on and left, slamming the door real good on my way out.

I could hear Beastmaster yelling, “DON’T SLAM THE GODDAMN DOOR—FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” You believe that, Mary? Beastmaster. That’s what I’ve started calling Jimmy’s drunk-ass mother. Son’s an abusive shithead and all she cares about is me slamming her damn door!

I get in my car. Jimmy comes sprinting out—naked—screaming—crying—his shriveled up cock bouncing as he’s punching the hood. I’ll admit, seeing that skinny fuck-face with his sad little wiener and all, I felt bad. Seriously. But I had to split—and fast!

“Don’t you dare leave me like this, bitch!” I roll the window down and tell Jimmy he’s acting dumb and that he needs to take his meds. Then he’s on the hood with his junk pressed against my windshield. I said fuck it, and peeled out. I meant to just freak him out but he, like, slides down the hood of the car, disappears, and then … BAM! I brake, park it, see Jimmy in the rearview. He’s sprawled out in the middle of the road.

I go over and nudge him. He isn’t really moving, just twitching some, and he has blood on his mouth. I thought about Dracula. Then I lost it and started yelling, “You stupid prick!”—blahblahblah—“What’s wrong with you?”—blahblahblah—“It’s your own damn fault you got run over!” Really, Mary, what do you do—standing there looking down at your possibly dead idiot boyfriend? No, really, I’m asking… 

I wrapped him in a blanket I got from out the trunk and then dragged him, God help me, to Beastmaster’s front door—nearly topple over those stupid ceramic squirrels she keeps in the yard—stupid bitch—and Jimmy is heavy as fuck! Really, Mary, I’m the one who should be dieting? Shit…

Jimmy’s head kind of droops forward as I’m sitting him against the door and I leap sixteen feet in the air! Thought he came back to life, Mary—Night of the Living Fuck-heads! Anyway, I kiss his forehead, say a prayer—you know, the proper crap?—and contemplate whether or not to leave a note.

Beastmaster didn’t hear shit. Bet she was passed out. Drunk whore. The neighbors, I assume, didn’t hear or see anything either. Lucky for me, Beastmaster lives way out in bum-fuck. Lucky for them too, I bet. The neighbors, I mean. Everybody.

Right now I’m parked behind the Sip’n’ Save…Well, of course I think he’s dead! Yeah. So, Mary … how about I come get you? What for? So you can help me bury limp-dick Jimmy! I decided to not leave him with Beastmaster after all—got him in my trunk. What if he’s not dead? Who cares? Dead or alive, he’s going in the ground. So, like, what do you say, Mary? … Hello? … Maryyyy? … Yoo hoo!? …Mary! ...

Brian Alan Ellis is the author of The Mustache He’s Always Wanted but Could Never Grow, 33 Fragments of Sick-Sad Living, and King Shit. His shit has appeared through such outlets as Skive, Crossed Out, The Whistling Fire, Zygote in My Coffee, Monkeybicycle, DOGZPLOT, Conte, Sundog Lit, Connotation Press, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, HTML Giant, Entropy, That Lit Site, Diverse Voices Quarterly, flashquake, Spittoon, Spry, NAP, The Next Best Book Blog, and Atticus Review, and was also adapted and performed by the Buntport Theater group in Denver, Colorado. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida, and works at a barbecue slop house.