was thinking about it before I even saw her. It was a stroke of luck, me thinking about it, and her getting off the bus. Fate had thrown us together. Opportunity had knocked.
Sometimes I wonder about God and sin and the afterlife, but then I stop worrying and remember that there’s more than one religion in this world. Why does the one with fire and brimstone have to be right? Guilt complexes and for what? This lava lamp looks so sad turned off. It’s red wax in clear water, and I’ll turn it on. I’ll be a Mormon.
I had been sitting in the bushes for a while, that particular afternoon. I’d sat there before. Nobody could see me. Sometimes I’d have a drink, or a quick one off the wrist, but usually it was just a place to sit and contemplate life after a quiet toke. I was sitting by the corner, watching the traffic pass. I was also casually watching the woman waiting at the bus stop. She wasn’t doing anything interesting, just standing and shivering and looking annoyed, occasionally checking her watch. It prompted me to look at mine. I was surprised. Despite having to strain to read it in the dimness, even considering the leafy shadows, it was only ten past six.
My lava lamp is just starting to heat up. It’s something to watch when I get tired of everything else, and I think that the glowing blobs floating up and down the bulging tube have some kind of calming, centering effect. The pattern is never the same. When it’s still cool, I take the tube out and shake it up until it turns completely red and frothy – like blood in plasma – and see how long it takes to separate and return to normal. It takes ages. Lisa bought the lamp for me last year, and even though I hate her and I hope that the bitch gets what’s coming, I still like the lamp.
I saw the 544 coming, and the thought first occurred to me. It took hold of me, this thought, and that was it. Once I get an idea in my head I don’t bother thinking about all the rights and wrongs – I always end up agreeing with myself anyway. If it happens it happens, then we have something to think about on a lonely night. Shakespeare was right. It’s much better to have lost and loved than never to have lost at all. So, with this in mind, I threw my empty bottle into the trees and stood up to watch the bus pull into the stop – and it felt just like a movie without music. Poetic. The bus hesitated for a moment, then moved away, and there she was. On cue. Standing in the swirling yellow dust, schoolbag over one shoulder and shopping bags in both hands. I knew she’d be coming my way, because she waited for the traffic to clear, to cross. But how had I known that she would appear like that? To be honest I’d entertained the thought before, had premonitions and even dreams about it, but never this deeply. It was fate, it was meant to be. I stood up, wiped the leaves off my pants, and stepped further back into the bushes.
The wax is getting bigger like a tumor. It’s almost hot enough to start floating.
She took a while crossing the road, which was okay, but for a second I thought she might turn and go into the petrol station a hundred metres down the road. She didn’t. She walked right past me, swinging her bags and kicking stones down the path. As she walked past, so close that I thought she’d know, I could properly see what she was wearing – a school jumper and flared indigo jeans. She had long, dark hair and her fingernails were painted hot pink. I guessed she was fourteen. A virgin, then. I couldn’t help calculating the age difference between us, eight years, and tried to push the thought out of my head. Not that it mattered. As soon as she was far enough away, I emerged from the bushes and took a deep breath. I started to jog.
A line of molten wax has begun to stretch upwards.
She heard my footsteps and glanced back at me, and I didn’t flinch. She turned around and kept walking. I slipped my knife out of my pocket. What was she thinking? “Gee I hope he’s not a weirdo, what would I do if he grabbed me?” I grabbed her.
Ah! The first red blob has broken free.
I can’t remember what happened then. Something inside me had clicked, and I was moving along automatically. I hear her screams, sometimes, and am reminded that I could have done something worse. I could have killed her. Made it a victimless crime. But I didn’t kill her, no, I only said I would, because I’m not a filthy murderer. I wasn’t even all that horny. It was her own fault – it was destiny. It had always been my destiny. It had always been my fantasy. Obsessions don’t come for nothing, because they are the stuff of legends and miracles. The reality of events is a little different, in some contexts, though. Looking back, trying to remember every little thing, I think broken glass cut her back as I dragged her back into my secret place in the bushes. I didn’t cut her. It was some stupid idiot’s fault for throwing a bottle there. Maybe I gave her a few bruises, but I didn’t cut her. She’ll testify to that.
Watching the wax separate and merge, I have just realized something. I hate this lamp. The stupid fake red lava, weightless, floating stupidly inside a stupid glass bottle decorated to resemble a rocket. A child’s toy, a waste. Mindless and pointless. It doesn’t provide any real light, only an annoying reddish glow. I wonder if I could smash it open and use the wax to seal my cracked pipe.
After I had finished, and she sat there against a tree, sobbing, I stared down at her. She had turned deathly white, but studied me with red, clouded eyes, and I looked at her as if she were a stranger. We weren’t just strangers anymore. Life without pain… has no meaning. Slightly overwhelmed by what had just happened, and being half off my face, I couldn’t help staring at the blood trickling from between her legs. Her thighs had turned red and white. She noticed me looking, and bent forwards pathetically. I brushed the leaves off my pants and walked away.
The lava lamp now lies broken on my floor. It’s something to watch until my girlfriend gets back from work, and I think that the thickening red wax and poison water dripping from the glass have some kind of calming, centering effect. I can’t help staring at the wax trickling along the jagged edge, as it will trickle empty soon. Someone else can pick up the pieces.