A Stabbing in New York

[Photograph by @lymmerik]

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The tiny New York hotel room walls seemed to buckle under the strain of Hank’s harsh words.

“You never do anything right.”

Jane sat quietly in a solitary chair at a small desk stuffed in the corner. Stains littered the cheap red carpet and the smell of ancient cigarette smoke infected everything.

She glanced at his face. Pure disgust. She had taken too long with the ice bucket.

“You know I like fresh ice with my whiskey.”

Jane shrunk her shoulders down into her yellow dress straps, trying her best to disappear.

Hank threw two partly melted ice cubes into a glass. He uncorked the whiskey and poured in too much. He gulped it quickly and plopped down on the bed.

“Go get some more ice. And don’t take so goddamn long this time.”

Jane patted down her dress, stood up and headed for the door. She looked back at him—the glass resting on his shirtless potbelly, no doubt coated in slimy sweat.

She breathed in, opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, and breathed out. At the ice machine, she abandoned the ice bucket.

Out on the street, a cool evening wind chilled her. They had scrimped and saved for months to take the trip of a lifetime. She thought things would be different. Promised to be on his best behavior and all that. Some things never change.

Across the street, illuminated by a streetlight, a scantily-clad woman leaned against a brown brick wall sucking on a cigarette. A pimp in a pinstriped suit too big for his narrow shoulders yelled at her. She performed her best act to ignore the verbal assault. The pimp clamped his hand around her wrist, the cigarette plummeted to the ground.

Even the distance of the street couldn’t hide something familiar in the hooker’s eyes.

Jane hurried down the sidewalk as if she would be next in the pimp’s dossier.

A little girl and her mother stood in front of a store window, both staring through the glass. Jane stopped behind them.

“Mommy, I want to go home,” she overheard the little girl.

“For the last time, shut up. Johnny is almost done his shift.”

The little girl must have sensed Jane’s presence and looked up at her with big beautiful blue eyes that quickly darted back to the store's display case. Jane felt a strong urge to bend down and hug the girl. She waved in the window's reflection to catch the girls attention. She smiled, trying to convey something, something good and wholesome and that everything would be alright. The smile felt phony, forced. The little girl waved back at the reflection, her expression blank.

Jane walked on and came across an old building—Grand Theater it read on interlocking tiles at the entrance. The old-fashioned ticket booth brought her back to her first date with Hank. Handsome Hank and his charming smile. She couldn’t resist him for long. Jane rubbed a sore spot where he had lovingly placed a purple and green bruise a few days ago.

Jane strolled past the ticket booth and pressed her ear to the theater’s doors. She thought she heard something inside. Maybe someone was renovating late at night, making what was old and broken whole again.

“Hank is gonna kill me,” Jane said to no one and turned back to the hotel.

She stood in front of the ice machine. An ice pick rested on top of it. Without thinking twice, she placed it in the bucket along with some ice.

“Where the hell have you been.” Hank didn’t even look her way, having made the bed his final destination for the evening.

“I just needed some air.”

“Make me a drink. And don’t screw it up.”

Two cold ice cubes slipped from her fingers and jingled into the tumbler.

“Hurry it up,” Hank barked.

Jane grabbed the ice pick. She stabbed at the cubes. She stabbed again and again till the ice turned to slush. Grasping the implement, her face hot from effort, she looked at Hank. His heaving sweaty body screamed every vile thing he had ever inflicted on her. She could already hear the reproach of how she handled his precious ice.

She lunged. The ice pick thrust its way home.

Blood oozed out of Hank’s neck. His eyes bulged and arms flailed, but not for long.

Jane wrapped the bloody corpse in bed sheets. She sat down at the desk and rifled through her makeup bag. She fished out her favorite velvet-cherry lipstick and doing her best to calm her nerves, slowly lifted off the cap. Her hand trembled and smeared some of the red onto her face.

She burst into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Not only was the lipstick job terrible but plenty of blood had found its way onto her brow and cheek. Jane took control of her breathing, slowing her heaving shoulders in the reflection. She peered into her blue eyes, now seemingly violet, and a sudden and uncontrollable grin flashed across her face.

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This is my entry for The Writers' Block Art Prompt Writing Contest #11 based on the photo by @lymmerik. Thank you to the excellent editors over at TWB fiction workshop for making editing suggestions for this piece.

Hope you enjoyed reading it.