Happy Endings (For EW&R)

Happy Endings

She wondered what that even meant, the neon words that screamed a lie so blatant, so treacherously false, that the words had no meaning. It could have been kanji or Russian and she’d have understood it better.

“Happy.” She snorted. That was a damned lie. The happy was all used up. If there ever had been any, and at this point, she wouldn’t give odds on that being anything other than a sucker trap.

“Endings.” Just as much of a lie. Nothing ended. Ever. Oh, movies ended and roads ended and football season ended, but all the other shit, that whole ‘life’ thing just kept right on chugging. The sun still rose, no matter how hard she shoved it down. All the others, the ones she supposed must be people, too, if she thought about it hard enough, yeah, they went right on, driving and working and fucking and shit. And living.

And dying. What a pisser, that the only real end to anything was one the person it happened to couldn’t experience.

Fuck life anyway. Why was there anything here at all? Why wasn’t it all just rock and fire? What business did life have coming about, coating pure rock and holy fire with layer upon layer of muck? And feelings.

Why feelings? Who held god’s foot to the flames and tortured him until he sucked torment into his soul and made it his hobby? What asshat of a dom had taken him on, raped all the good — if it exists — out of him, and then walked away, laughing, leaving him sobbing, needing, unable to have? Who taught him that pain’s thrill is like no other and then withheld it so he could only get off by torturing others?

She slammed her hand down on the bar, splashing the condensation from at least three empties the bartender hadn’t bothered to wipe up before delivering the next. Perfect. Picture fucking perfect.

It had to stop. She laid her head on the bar, uncaring that the mascara would run in the wet spots, and willed death, snapped her figurative fingers and called it to her. “Here, boy, here. Here, deathy, deathy, deathy. Got one for you. Come and get it. Come on, you frigging coward, come take me!”

It never worked. She’d tried it before. The bastard skated close, just beyond her grasp, and ducked and dodged, laughing when she lunged. She was doomed. Condemned. Sentenced to life in what someone had called “this fine prison, this world, this life.” Without parole.

Happy Endings, god’s clever lie to keep his pets from figuring things out and telling him to fuck off, ruining his little pain party. Well, she knew. She’d figured it out. She wouldn’t play anymore. No monster in the sky was going to jack it to her anguish.

And yet … if that got him off, then he must be covered in sticky white gunk about now, as much as she hurt. Goddammit, the bastard couldn’t lose! Unless ….

She raised her head, handed the Amaretto Sour back to the bartender and ordered diet Cokes ‘and keep them coming’, then made her way to a corner booth. Earbuds in, laptop open, she opened a new project in Scrivener. Fuck god. If he didn’t do happy endings, she’d do them instead, and live in the electrons and not this shit-riddled prison.

She titled the project “Happy Endings” and began.

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
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