‘Would you like one?’ she asks.
‘You smoke?’
‘I am a villain…hello!’
‘No, thank you. I’m giving up.’
She knows what she’s doing, how she’s moving, and I know that’s the cruelest part. She shifts in her seat, spine rigid. I can see her corset, once a symbol of control, now feels suffocating as her fingers work at the laces, urgency battling against restraint, until finally the fabric gives way.
‘That’s better!’ She exhales slowly.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ my voice comes out rougher catching my frustration. She moves the cigarette to her lips, considering my words with amusement. ‘Maybe.’ Her cigarette rolls idly between her fingers like she’s enjoying me unravel, and before I can stop myself, my hand finds her wrist. Not rough, but firm enough that she knows the power has shifted.
I warned her, but I could tell she didn’t believe me, but now she’s about to discover I’m not a man to be trifled with.
I push up from my seat, the air cracking between us with something volatile. ‘Where’s your whiskey? This bottle is empty.’ My voice is tight, clipped, barely restrained. She leans back, crossing her legs over the other, watching me like a cat would her prey.
‘Cooler,’ she says, lazily and unconcerned.
The kitchen wasn’t far – just down the hallway. I can see it from here. As I edge near, a scent hangs in the air – it’s wax and something sharper, something faintly organic. It sticks in my throat, but I swallow down as I step forward. Glass shelves line the walls of the hallway. At first glance, they look delicate, elegant even. But as I focus, details sharpen – and my stomach clenches.
Rows of grins.
They’re mouths frozen in time, preserved in careful moulds; Stella’s own personal museum of final expressions. Her trophies.
Some aren’t afraid. Some wear amusement, lips parted in quiet mockery. Others smirk, teeth barely touching, arrogance still clinging to them like perfume. But every mould captures the same inevitable moment – the instant before realisation hits. Before the bravado fades. Before their downfall.
There’s a shift in the air behind me. I stiffen.
‘Like what you see?’ Stella’s voice slides through the silence, quiet and heavy. I turn, finding her standing in the doorway. She doesn’t step forward nor tell me to leave. And I don’t. Instead, I swallow hard. ‘Are these your trophies?’
A slow tilt of her head tells me that’s exactly what they are.
‘Call them whatever helps you sleep at night.’
I glance at the rows of grins once more. Mouthpieces frozen in time, suspended in their final moments.
‘Why?’ I ask, the word barely scraping past my lips.
Stella casually moves towards me. Her fingers brush the glass like a sculptor admiring her work. ‘You ever see someone smile when they think they’re invincible? The moment right before they show you exactly who they are?’ Her fingers stop in front of a particular mould – a wide, toothy, cocky grin. The kind plastered across someone who thought they were untouchable. I’ve seen that look before.
‘They all smiled at me,’ she says, like she’s sharing a secret, ‘right before I took their lives.’ She turns towards me. ‘Some people deserve to be remembered for the way they laughed at me, thinking about their own invincibility. They’re not just trophies, Sal. They’re proof.’
I step back, moving towards the kitchen. On the counter, something catches my eyes – a black lipstick. I stare at it, unmoving. I don’t reach for it. Not yet. Instead, I stand there, breathing her in – the lingering scent of perfume and cigarettes.
I breathe you in like a scripture. You’re so infuriating, really. You’re colonising every space in my mind even when you’re not here. I’m shackled to the smell of smoke and sin and you. I should hate it, but like cigarettes it’s addictive. You’re addictive.
I open the window, pretending I’m purging the memory, but I linger just a moment longer. My jaw tightens, I flex my fingers, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Then – I pick it up – the lipstick. The cap is still warm, like she only just touched it, as if the heat of her lips still lingers against its surface. I turn it over in my palm, my thumb pressing against the casing. It shouldn’t mean anything. If I steal it, she wouldn’t notice. It’s just a stupid little…trophy.
Yes that’s exactly what it is.
I tuck it into my pocket – not because I need it. But because I needher. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I yank open the fridge door with a force that rattles its contents.
This girl is giving me bluer balls than ice cubes.
The whiskey bottle is ice-cold against my palm, the condensation clinging as I twist the cap free. The burn comes fast, but I ignore it, letting the fire slide down my throat with a long, hard swig.
