Outsider by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh Page A

men’s clothes, or unisex
clothes, the baggier the better. Sweet Jane, even without going for
the 100% feminine look had a very different approach to
fashion.
     
    After the Cuban gig as excellent as usual,
we decided to go for a drink in the next street’s pub. I liked this
pub. Loads of punks hanging out there. I especially loved the huge
metal spider hovering over the door, inside. And all the fancy
skulls and heavy metal posters. Everyone went there so Sweet Jane
was like everyone else. She was wearing a tight fitting T-shirt
contrasting with her baggy blue jeans. Red Reb had on a black
waistcoat over a white T-shirt and nice chinos. I had my usual punk
ripped black trousers, sleeveless leather jacket, and a few chains
where I could fit them. I guessed we were gonna have a few drinks
too many as usual. We’d talk to some wasted people from various
genders, and we’d argue among us, especially Reb and me. It was a
game.
     
    I am ready to face the blazing of the sun,
wishing happy naps to Jane’s neighbours. I don my dark shades and
pull the door open. Push it back immediately and run for a closet.
Shit. Here comes Red Reb, walking up the pathway, blissful and wide
awake, oblivious.
    Oh no. Even better: in my hurry I have left
the door ajar. I hear the hinges screaming for DW40. A step in. She
calls out:
    “Jane! Are you in?”
    Silence, as heavy as tons of tanker boats
rushed over the shore by a tidal wave of angry ocean.
    After another step, louder:
    “Jane! Where the hell are you? Your front
door is open!”
    She walks in. I can hear the metal clicking
of her cowboy boots. She passes by my closet. Then silence again. I
open my door a tiny crack. I see her tense back. She is studying
the mess I have left. She breathes in deeply and breathes out. Like
a long sigh. Oxygen must be good. Out of a pocket she slowly gets
her mobile phone. She dials an emergency number. I am feeling sad.
Her voice is close to breaking, but you can always trust Red Reb to
keep any situation under control. She asks for the cops. After a
silence, she uses the word “dead”, in the middle of a carefully
constructed sentence. Suggests an ambulance, even so Jane looks
dead. And is dead. Repockets the communication tool.
    I open my closet door more widely. I want to
get away before the cops get the echo of their sirens into the
neighborough. The door creaks. Reb swiftly turns around and faces
me.
    “Kay, you’re ok? What happened?” Stepping one
step closer to me, then stopping, taking in the cleanliness of my
skin. One of the things I like about Reb is that she’s got a brain
and knows how to use it.
    I keep utterly silent, utterly frozen on my
spot. I feel the fog rounding in my brain. I hear Reb’s voice,
soft:
    “Kay, what’s the matter with you?”
    Whatever happens next, I can’t remember.
     
    Five vodkas each and we were still arguing.
Sweet Jane was unusually bright and sparkly. She was the loudest of
our lot. Vodka drowning cranberry juice. Five was our minimum. That
was, Red Reb’s and mine. Five was more likely to be Jane’s extreme
maximum. She was rather bubbly and was not gonna be able to walk
straight. But wasn’t it her favorite joke: even sober, she couldn’t
walk straight.
     
    The dizziness fades. I rub my eyes and
quietly feel the evening light washing over me. Then I see the
blood under my nails, down my fingers, eating at my hands, shiny
and barely sticky. Again……. I look ahead of me and stare
soundlessly.
    The previous tenant of my flat was probably
into s/m fun. The chains solidly fitted in the wall are mementoes
of this time before my time. I had decided not to bother with
getting them off and opted for a pair of heavy black drapes. The
drapes are open. Red Reb is kneeling with the wall watching her
back, her hair hanging from her bent head. Her arms up, not by
choice but held up by the chains. I walk slowly towards her,
feeling empty and doomed. There is blood on her jeans outfit,
criss-crossing her