"Holy crap, I love you."

A Story by T.K. Clay

WARNING: LANGUAGE A story about true love.

WHUMP!

I'm jolted awake. The first two things I notice are darkness and my inability to see in it. Disappointment fills me; yet another day without superpowers.

There's a constant whirring noise around me, which I quickly identify as the familiar hum of a car's engine. Quickly still, I deduce that I'm in the back of my girlfriend's black hatchback, the make and model of which I do not know---possibly because it's been charmed with a genericness of unknowable origin that causes all beholders to put upon it bland and indistinguishable features.

...But more likely it's because I'm really bad with cars.

WHUMP!

The car jolts again, the result of a pothole, I guess, slamming my head into something. I groan a groan I've never groaned before, an animalistic expression of misery, and it scares me. At once, I register three things. 1.) I'm not just in the back of the car, I'm in the trunk, 2.) my wrists are handcuffed behind me, and 3.) there's a mysterious, stabbing pain in my gut.

No, wait---that pain is probably the result of my girlfriend stabbing me in my gut.

The memories hit me like an abusive spouse---Kitchen. Thanksgiving. Arguing. Over what, I don't know; I wasn't really listening. A flash of motion is all I saw before a knife got buried hilt-deep into my stomach. Our kitchen knife, a knife that only moments before had been carving a turkey.

Then without warning I became a turkey, cooked by my lover's fury and stuffed with a ceramic razor (and whatever turkey giblets that were on it).

I'd say there was a stabbing pain in my heart, but thank goodness she didn't go for that, too.

We glide over another blemish in the road, and suddenly I don't feel as thankful anymore.

Blood, my blood, is staining my clothes. Besides the fact that I can feel it oozing from my wound, I'm certain it's mine because the smell corresponds with a code I developed for my bodily fluids after a particularly crazy night in junior high when an exact such code would've saved me from misfortune.

I'm pleased to note that I don't smell any semen, mine or otherwise.

WHUMP!

I'm set to unleash some very creative curses when my head and stomach switch places. I don't know if I mean that literally or not, but either way it's enough to make me pass o---

"OOF," I say. I must admit, it's a pretty nice night. The mud I'm dumped in isn't, but it tries to save the mood by french kissing me. It doesn't work.

A blade of grass inexplicabley finds its way up my nose, eliciting a sneeze I immediately regret---the sudden jerking causes torture to blossom in my stomach like it's been f*****g stabbed.

Oh yeah.

Looking around, I make out that I've been deposited almost directly from the trunk and a figure is standing in front of me.

Something slams into me, finding a target directly on my stab wound. At this point, I'm almost used to the pain is something that I desperately wish I could say, but kick somebody in a stab wound and they're bound to say something more along the lines of, "OH F*****G S**T OW S**T S**T MOTHERFUCKING TARANTULA TESTICLES OW OW S**T F*****G OW HEY WAIT DO TARANTULAS EVEN HAVE F*****G TESTICLES F**K F**K OW NO THEY F*****G DON'T OW F**K THAT F*****G HURT." This sort of thing goes on for a few minutesb until I'm just a mass of pain and labored breathing at my girlfriend's feet.

A flashlight shines on my face. "Done yet?" she asks over me.

I'm still gasping for air, any air, and mostly getting mud. It's cold enough out here that my breath is turning into a visible pink mist in front of me. Wait---pink mist? Huh. There's probably blood in my throat. I breathe out, sniff; yup.

Forcing out words feels like I'm trying to force out a child. "Why... Huff... The f**k... Ugh... Did you have to... Wear your damn... cowgirl boots?"

"They make me feel sexy. Plus, I thought they would help me in getting my point"---she feigns a kick, and I wince---"across."

"And what exactly... Oh f**k... Is your point?" I ask, even though the whole stabbing thing and the sound of running water behind me are pretty good hints.

She stares at me, and I stare at her. I'm shocked when I realize her face has on the usual expression she wears when she looks at me---disappointment. A weird thought pops up in my head. She may have stabbed me, but I gave her the knife.

Suddenly I feel very, very tired. Well, more than I already did.

I manage to choke out one word. "Why?"

"'Why?'" my girlfriend echoes. "You want to know why?!" Her voice is rising, picking up anger as it goes along. "I should be the one asking you that! But unlike you, I'll actually give you the decency of an honest answer; because I'm sick. Sick of your bullshit, sick of you. Sick of smelling perfume on you that I don't own. Sick of washing your clothes and finding f*****g lipstick on them. You know what I found the other day in my car? In my car? Panties. Motherfucking panties that I've never even seen before!"

She opens her mouth, and screams wordless, unrestrained frustration. "Your turn, a*****e! Why the perfume? Why lipstick?! Why the goddamned panties?! Why, why, why?! Give me a straight f*****g answer for once. In. Your. God. Damned. LIFE."

Using my tongue, I dig out some mud that was stuck between my teeth and spit it out. "Well, I'm not really sure if finally revealing to you that I'm a drag queen would be a straight answer."

I'm not sure if tears obscure my vision or if my eyes just roll into the back of my head after another, harder kick.

"F*****g a*****e!" She screeches. "You mean you really can't even be serious to save your own life?! I'm about to throw your bleeding a*s down a river, and you think it's time to make jokes? Are you kidding me? Oh wait, you probably f*****g are!"

I don't say anything.

She crouches down, gets her face close to mine. Her eyes are damp and red, but her voice is deathly calm. "Just tell me, why? Am I not good enough for you?"

As a master of doing stupid s**t at the worst time, I snort a laugh.

My girlfriend doesn't finish me off right away. For a moment, she swaps out anger for confusion. When the scowl of all scowls settles on her face, I realize I'm on borrowed time.

"Let me explain," I sputter.

She doesn't say anything, but her gaze is fixed on me.

That means I've got maybe five seconds. "You? Not good enough for me? Me?" I almost have to laugh again, but I'm able contain the dumbassery within me. "Listen. There's no one better than you."

I mean it.

"So why'd you cheat on me?" she says solidly.

The question makes me flinch. It's something I've been dreading myself. "I didn't want to admit this, but f**k it. I'm going to die anyway, so... Here goes.

"I realized a long time ago that you were better than me. Honestly, I had no idea why you were with me. I mean, for one, you're a 10 first thing in the morning. But me? I'm like a 4 1/2 at best when I dress up. I always figured that I was like, a pit stop guy for you until you met a real guy."

The words are flowing out now. "But I... I guess I got attached to you. Without wanting to, I truly fell in love wirh you. F**k, this hurts." I shift in the mud, trying in vain to get comfortable. "So... I guess I was scared. Terrified, even, because I knew that when you finally left me, I'd be heartbroken."

And now for the whopper. "I decided to get some, well, heart insurance, if you get what I'm saying."

I drop my head, smacking into then getting absorbed by the mud. There's a worm squirming about six inches from my face.

We're both silent for a long while. Or maybe it's just for a few seconds. I can't tell.

She breaks it. "You're seriously telling me that the only reason you cheated on me was because you were afraid of me leaving?"

I shrug. "Well when you say it like that, it does sound a little counter-productive."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" She sucks in air, then exhales. "How long have we been together?"

I rack my brain for a bit. "Two years, next Thursday."

"Actually, it's next Tuesday."

"Wow. Remember when you said I couldn't get a date right even if it killed me?" I say, and for a half-second I see something on her face. Maybe it's my imagination or a trick of the light, but I'm pretty sure the sides of her lips twitched upward.

"Do you really believe I'd leave you on a whim after all this time?"

I don't look at her.

"You'd have to be crazy to think that."

Without missing a beat, I quip, "You would know."

"Are you calling me crazy?" The edge is back in her voice, but so is something else. Something warmer.

"Well, you do have me bleeding out on the riverside."

"Shut up. You did that to yourself."

I don't say anything, because what is there to say? She's right.

"Get up."

I try, but the pain weighs me down and the dizziness strips me of my balance. "Handcuffs," I grunt.

"Sorry, but I put the handcuffs on you when I stuffed you in the trunk. I was so ticked off at you then that I threw the key across the yard."

I groan in response.

"Don't get me wrong; I'm still pissed. If you don't want me to get even more pissed, you'll do what I say and get up."

"Can't..." is all I can manage.

She stoops, and with a fair amount of swearing from the both of us, she helps me up. She tries to help me stand on my own, but I'm nothing but dead weight.

She tries to walk carrying our combined weight, but it's no use---SPLAT! Her legs gave out and she had to throw me off, giving me a tearful reunion with the mud.

"Sorry!" she says sweetly. "No point in us both falling, right?"

"Ugh."

Switching tactics, she flips me so I'm on my back, picks up my legs, and drags me around to the passenger side door.

We'r both huffing and puffing once I'm finally stood up again, and I'm practically thrown inside.

She rounds the front of the car and climbs in behind the wheel, and starts the car. Bon Jovi screams at me for giving love a bad name.

"Where are we going?" I wheeze.

"Hospital," she says flatly.

"You know they're gonna ask about my... Injury."

"We'll just say you cut yourself shaving."

The first real smile I've had in months spreads across my face. "A manscaping accident?"

She smirks; it's wry and friendly. "It was a work-related hazard. You are a drag queen, right? You were just trying to look fabulous."

A laugh rises from my stomach and belts out along with some blood mixed in. "Can we tell them I was fishing for swordfish with my bare hands? That's way more badass."

She chuckles, carefree and flirty like when I first saw her. Like when we first kissed. Like when she first saw my collection of taxidermied animals acting out scenes from Star Wars.

"Sure," she chuckles. God, I love that sound.

I have to focus to clear my double vision. A feeling I almost don't recognize bubbles up from my chest and lights up every muscle, bone, vein, nerve, and germ in my body. At first I think it's an infection, but after the feeling heats up my head, I know it's an infection. But it's also a different kind of "fection"---affection. An infection of love and also probably bacteria.

And the woman responsible for both feelings is sitting right next to me. "Holy crap, I love you," I blurt. We're both surprised by my raw sincerity.

She giggles and flashes me a mischievous grin. I grin back. "You're just delirious, silly," she says playfully and jabs her finger into my wound. Even more playfully, she grinds it around inside.

Before blacking out from the pain, I hear her whisper, "But I love you too."