Picnic
There was a last date happening in the middle of the park. A picnic blanket of cheap material that feels like linoleum is scattered with half a dozen plastic containers that hold cold, below slightly average food. A Bluetooth speaker plays video game music, though he didn’t call it that when he asked to put it on, he thought she wouldn’t recognise it, he just called it ‘contemporary’. She imagined a lot of things would be ‘contemporary’ to him. Dating. Exercise. Being a functional member of society. The two bottles of wine he brought weren’t enough to make him funny, and he wouldn’t share the half-empty bottle of scotch in his bag as it “had a purpose”.
She wondered if he knew how stupid he sounded. He thought he was being mysterious and aloof, and that would somehow make him across as a starving creative instead of a chronic underachiever. He hated small talk, of course. She didn’t dare ask his political opinions. Every message he gave off, the body language, the enunciation of his words, the speaker playing fucking anime music, told her that she already knew everything there ever was to know about him. They made people like him in a factory. But hey, he offered her a full experience that was implied to be a fancy restaurant, and drinks. She should have probably realised that there wasn’t going to be any fine dining when he asked to pick her up in the middle of the day. At least she didn’t wear a dress. One of the benefits of being pretty is that you don’t have to be a very good listener. Your very tolerance of another’s presence is in itself a communication. Put on a smile, nod your head gently, and try to enjoy the undercooked pasta.
Eventually, he runs out of awkward smiles and things to say. He knows there won’t be a second date, but he probably thinks that if he asks she might be stupid enough, sympathetic enough, somehow endeared by his complete lack of being that she might say yes to one. He asks. She says let’s go back to the car. His face crumples in real time, just like a child that has had their favourite toy taken away. That’s when she notices it. The expression was a little too much. There was a flicker at the beginning, almost as though he went to smile, a genuine smile, not an awkward smile, before he managed to twist it into its crestfallen figure. She shivers and stands up. She pretends to be very fascinated by the birds flying between the trees, but keeps him in the corner of her vision as he packs away the pots. His hands are shaking. He takes out the bottle of scotch, and she looks away in time to avoid him turning to see if she’s watching. She turns around to see him finishing the bottle. What the fuck. She hadn’t seen someone drink like that since an 18th in high school. Then she takes a moment to think about what is happening. The purpose of the action.
She kicks off her shoes and breaks into a run. Oh my god. She can hear him behind him, wheezing and spluttering after having inhaled a mouth full of scotch as he got up to chase her. Jesus Christ, he was going to kill her. This absolute loser was going to kill her, and he probably wouldn’t even rape her because he considers himself some kind of feminist, or felt that he had some kind of standards, but I guess killing women was not a contradiction to any of that. They are off the grass now, into the thick foliage. She tries to throw leaves and debris behind her and kick things so that he has a harder time catching up, but it mostly just slows her down. It isn’t like the movies. Someone hell bent on killing you isn’t really going to care about getting hit in the face by some branches as they chase you.
She’s knocked down into the mulch. Surely he knows he’s not going to ever get away with this. Witnesses or not, people know she was going on a date. There are the receipts, geolocation pings from the glorified spy surveillance that was her phone, and the fact that 20 minutes ago a family of 4 walked past them and she waved at their kids. This made it so much worse. There was no self-preservation, this was simply about destruction. He would probably say it was reckless hate and think he was making a niche reference. Hands on her back, rolling her so she can look up into his face, then hands on her neck. He gags, then vomits all over her, it’s a mixture of scotch and pasta. His grip barely loosens. She tries to wipe off her face, then scrabbles at him, blindly, trying to find his face. How long did she have before she passed out? How long before she became a vomit covered corpse? They wouldn’t put that image on the news. But no, that was probably going to be her legacy. Another woman killed by another useless man who made it clear he cared about nothing more than killing her for spite. 5 seconds, or 6. Long shot. She looks into his eyes, and reaches up a vomit covered hand to caress his face. He freezes, eyes going wide, his grip loosening. Her vision is going, but she holds her hand there with all her might, and strokes his cheek as tenderly as you can while being choked to death. Then he lets go. He stands up and vomits again, while she lays there and sucks in deep, gasping breaths that feel like heroin. No wonder her friends liked being choked, this was amazing. She just wish it hadn’t had to nearly die for it to happen. She pushes herself up and begins to crawl backwards, while he just stares at the ground. She tries to speak, but the first time her throat is blocked. She stands up, and slowly backs away. When it becomes clear he isn’t following her, she looks back at him. This time her voice works.
“You have issues dude.”
He keeps looking at the ground. “I know.”
She runs out of the park, and calls the police. She takes off her top and uses it to wipe the vomit off her face while she waits near the parking lot. Sirens 5 minutes later. That was quick. 3 cop cars show up, and everyone gets out in second. She gives a tired wave and a smile, then points towards where she came from. Two policemen come over to check on her, the rest head into the trees. The shock is wearing off. She starts to cry, and they take her to hospital. Despite telling them she hadn’t been raped each new person asks about half a dozen times, as though she was waiting for someone who she felt safe enough to tell the truth to. Everyone is telling her how brave she is, and how she did such a good job getting away, and then her parents show up and the whole cycle starts all over again. Everyone is crying because that’s just the only thing that you can really do.
She asks to be discharged immediately after they take evidence from her once. They've finished the two short interviews that they tell her won’t be the last. The nurses seem hesitant, but agree as long as she goes with her parents. She gets in a fight with her parents in the car when she insists on going home. “Please, stay with us tonight.”
No Mum, I’ve had quite enough of other people for a very long time. She goes home to her apartment and slams the door. It’s late. She gets in the bath and thinks about slitting her wrists with her razorblades. Imagine living through all of that only to do yourself in. She should start carrying a knife, or a stun rod, or something. A gun would be a little too much. She’d use it on herself more likely if she had to go on another date with someone like that.
There’s a vanity mirror across from her that she catches her reflection as she thinks that. It’s a soft, genuine smile that crumples into a frown when she notices it. She laughs. Finger guns at the mirror.
“You’ve got issues, dude.”
She shoots.