for the first time, what people mean by blind rage: he isn’t seeing them at all, but a life’s worth of insults and injuries. This has nothing to do with Tina and Bobby.
“Just let us go, please,” she says quietly. “We won’t say anything.”
This enrages Lyle still further. “You think I’m fucking kidding?” he says. He raises the pistol from Bobby’s neck and fires another shot through the wall behind their head, the floor, really. Tina’s ears ring with the noise. “Now come on,” Lyle says, pressing the barrel to Bobby’s neck again, pulling his head closer.
This is like a dream, she thinks, everything so clear and sharp, and terrible things are happening, and she can’t seem to move her arms or do anything about it, she can only watch: Bobby opens his mouth comically wide and takes Lyle’s cock inside him, the little gun glittering like an ornament at his throat. This conjunction of flesh seems impossible, categorically wrong, and yet there it is, the physical fact, and Tina feels the dazed blankness that comes from trying to hold too many ideas at a time. A flush of anger, at Lyle specifically—at all the things he’s showing her that she never wanted to see. Now Bobby seems nothing more than an extension of Lyle’s cock, a toy of Lyle’s desires; tears are standing on his cheeks as he starts to pump his head back and forth, slowly, and Lyle’s head eases back on the worn brown sofa cushions.
Tina takes the gun from his hand, it’s no more complicated than that, and puts the barrel into Lyle’s mouth through his parted, pleasuring lips.
Her hands feel stiff and clumsy still in their tight-laced braces, and she can’t quite understand how she got the gun from him, or what she’s going to do next; only the anger, her own anger this time. She’s inside Lyle now. “I ought to fucking kill you,” she says.
He looks at her around the hand that’s holding the gun inhis mouth, and his eyes are resigned, hidden from her. Go ahead, if you can.
Then Lyle reaches for the gun, clumsy in her stiff hands, and for a moment she thinks that he’s got it again and she tries to hold on tighter to keep it from him and somehow she gets the trigger instead and squeezes and Lyle’s head explodes against the wall behind him.
TINA CLOSES HER EYES
When she opens them again, none of this will have happened: she’ll be lying in her bed, driving home next to Bobby, watching television.
She can still feel the cool steel of the pistol in her hand.
Suddenly she remembers the spray of blood and brains across the textured carpet behind his head, and she wheels and vomits onto the floor, dropping the gun, and vomits again, as if she could empty herself out, become blank again. As if she could remove from herself this thing she’d done.
TO THE RESCUE
“Come on, baby,” Bobby says. “We’ll get you out of here.” One arm around her shoulders, he leads her blind to the kitchen, magazines rustling under their feet. Tina notices how quiet it has become in the trailer, and how cool. There must be a window open somewhere.
Bobby sets her down, leaning against the side of the refrigerator. When she opens her eyes she can see nothing of themain part of the living room. Bobby is staring at the blank yellow side of the refrigerator, then turns to face her, fierce. “What the fuck did you do that for?” he asks. “He’s fucking dead.”
Well, I hope so, Tina thinks, after all that. And then Bobby’s betrayal sinks in, and she sees that he’s abandoning her, and the fear kicks in, shivering in the center of her body. “I’m cold,” she says.
“I don’t give a shit.”
She says, “I didn’t … I didn’t …”
She wants to say, I didn’t want to, or I didn’t intend to; but what she really means is I
didn’t
.
“I don’t care,” Bobby says. “He’s fucking dead. Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if I can figure something out.”
“Like what?” she asks,
“Just let us go, please,” she says quietly. “We won’t say anything.”
This enrages Lyle still further. “You think I’m fucking kidding?” he says. He raises the pistol from Bobby’s neck and fires another shot through the wall behind their head, the floor, really. Tina’s ears ring with the noise. “Now come on,” Lyle says, pressing the barrel to Bobby’s neck again, pulling his head closer.
This is like a dream, she thinks, everything so clear and sharp, and terrible things are happening, and she can’t seem to move her arms or do anything about it, she can only watch: Bobby opens his mouth comically wide and takes Lyle’s cock inside him, the little gun glittering like an ornament at his throat. This conjunction of flesh seems impossible, categorically wrong, and yet there it is, the physical fact, and Tina feels the dazed blankness that comes from trying to hold too many ideas at a time. A flush of anger, at Lyle specifically—at all the things he’s showing her that she never wanted to see. Now Bobby seems nothing more than an extension of Lyle’s cock, a toy of Lyle’s desires; tears are standing on his cheeks as he starts to pump his head back and forth, slowly, and Lyle’s head eases back on the worn brown sofa cushions.
Tina takes the gun from his hand, it’s no more complicated than that, and puts the barrel into Lyle’s mouth through his parted, pleasuring lips.
Her hands feel stiff and clumsy still in their tight-laced braces, and she can’t quite understand how she got the gun from him, or what she’s going to do next; only the anger, her own anger this time. She’s inside Lyle now. “I ought to fucking kill you,” she says.
He looks at her around the hand that’s holding the gun inhis mouth, and his eyes are resigned, hidden from her. Go ahead, if you can.
Then Lyle reaches for the gun, clumsy in her stiff hands, and for a moment she thinks that he’s got it again and she tries to hold on tighter to keep it from him and somehow she gets the trigger instead and squeezes and Lyle’s head explodes against the wall behind him.
TINA CLOSES HER EYES
When she opens them again, none of this will have happened: she’ll be lying in her bed, driving home next to Bobby, watching television.
She can still feel the cool steel of the pistol in her hand.
Suddenly she remembers the spray of blood and brains across the textured carpet behind his head, and she wheels and vomits onto the floor, dropping the gun, and vomits again, as if she could empty herself out, become blank again. As if she could remove from herself this thing she’d done.
TO THE RESCUE
“Come on, baby,” Bobby says. “We’ll get you out of here.” One arm around her shoulders, he leads her blind to the kitchen, magazines rustling under their feet. Tina notices how quiet it has become in the trailer, and how cool. There must be a window open somewhere.
Bobby sets her down, leaning against the side of the refrigerator. When she opens her eyes she can see nothing of themain part of the living room. Bobby is staring at the blank yellow side of the refrigerator, then turns to face her, fierce. “What the fuck did you do that for?” he asks. “He’s fucking dead.”
Well, I hope so, Tina thinks, after all that. And then Bobby’s betrayal sinks in, and she sees that he’s abandoning her, and the fear kicks in, shivering in the center of her body. “I’m cold,” she says.
“I don’t give a shit.”
She says, “I didn’t … I didn’t …”
She wants to say, I didn’t want to, or I didn’t intend to; but what she really means is I
didn’t
.
“I don’t care,” Bobby says. “He’s fucking dead. Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if I can figure something out.”
“Like what?” she asks,
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