“Don’t stop. Keep going . . . . . .”

Amy tried to keep telling herself: It’s not escaping, it just feels good.

Lick. Suck. Finger. She knew what she was doing.

With men, it was always pain, never felt good, never at all. It always went back to it . . . . .

“Oh, fuck you. I’m leaving,” Sandra said, wiping off her face. “If you didn’t want me to do this you should have told me, you fucking bitch.”

“Cunt.” Amy whispered, only because she didn’t really mean it. She sat up, wiping the sweat from her brow. The door to her room in the apartment slammed shut.

They had never gone to the movies.

Alone again, Amy wasn’t sure about what to do. She obviously wasn’t in the mood for anything physical, and the television was a crappy UHF rabbit ear cardboard box with built in snow. There was nothing to read, and the grime seemed to be built in the walls. No hope for cleaning it.

The apartment smelled like burning shag carpet. One got used to it like one got used to having teeth pulled out by the roots. They both had used this room numerous times as a place to make some noise. It was nice and isolated, in an area where no one cared if you screamed over and over again. All they had needed was a fake ID and an excuse to leave with each other. And they honestly thought that no one knew.

Amy sighed and fell on her back. The couch squished with moisture. She pulled her skirt back up.

There was nothing here for her.

It was a long walk home. The city smelt worse than the apartment, because this time, emotions was stained on everything. It was disgusting to look at fleeting love dripping off the walls, and tears of an unwanted child oozing off of a dumpster lid.

It was in a time of sweltering heat. Each time a glob of sweat dropped from Amy’s face it was like fingernails being scratched on a chalkboard. It just made her want home to be a little closer. It made her wish she had never left.

What made it worse, is that she’d have to explain to Rouge what happened. This surrogate motherhood thing was a real drag. Amy didn’t understand why everything just couldn’t be better. Rouge had a degree in psychology, for fuck’s sake. Couldn’t she just tell the government to suck shit and go off on her own?

No.

In the dump-pussy part of town, Amy finally got to her home. Only about 45 minutes had passed since she left, not believable enough for a movie. It was still sultry when she opened the door.

Then she heard the gunshot.

**********

Tails worked at the Fastrip on the corner of a parking lot sitting next to an open field of concrete and cars. Sometimes she would go to him to borrow money, and he would usually oblige. It was the only male she ever talked with anymore.

It seemed to be a product of a product of a product. It was almost too much to think about, and Amy was confused more often than anything. Especially what had been happening lately, Rouge descending more and more, even before what happened . . . . .

The nighttime streets always seemed to be suffering the effects of a previous downpour, despite the heat, and it hadn’t rained in months. The soft sound of her heels clicking with the unknown fluids resounded along the quiet streets. Somewhere else, a siren could be heard. It was all too familiar.

Amy passed an alley on the way when she heard the familiar sounds of someone getting the shit beat out of them. Without even looking she recognized the voice.

“Little faggot . . . .” then a soft smack, then a groan.

She ran inwards, ducking behind a dumpster. For the next few moments she listened to the struggle, thinking to herself about the cruelty of the world, and was happy to finally hear the assailants leave, their laughter echoing along the thin, black-brick walls.

Amy hated alleys. She hated the trash strewn about and the way everything always seemed so dirty. She didn’t understand how anything could degrade to such a low level.

It was the bitterness talking. It was the same with the way she would always hate men. The two went hand and hand with her. This, though, was the last thing on her mind.

Standing from her crouch, she walked towards the beaten person in the convenience store uniform, and tried to smile as she greeted him. It was the best she could do.

Emotion dripped off of his orange, boyish face. He spat.

“Hi.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh it off. He hated looking this way in front of her, so he avoided eye contact.

He didn’t want her pity. Or at least, he didn’t want to see it.

As for Amy, her best was quickly fading and her face turning into a mask of fear and distress.

“What’s wrong?”

The plan had been so well thought out. Now it was falling apart like a toothpick house in a hurricane.

“Something . . . . . happened . . . . . .”

**********

It took them ten minutes to kick Sandra out. Then it was pure silence that echoed in the apartment.

Amy had a feeling that they were on borrowed time, and any minute the entire world could come crashing down on them. Tidal wave. No stopping it.

“Nice place.”

“Liar.”

Tails ignored the state of the couch and sat down on it. It squished.

“So . . . . what are we gonna do?”

Amy leaned against the wall, slightly light headed.

“I . . . . . don’t know. Things . . . . have been weird lately.”

“How?”

“Have you been reading the papers lately?”

“The cartoons count?”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah. I’ve been reading them.”

“The murders?”

“Yeah.”

“A close friend of mine was killed.”

“I know.”

“Brutally.”

“I know.”

Amy’s tears started to flow again. She wasn’t sobbing, but the waterfall ran down to the floor untouched. Still, Tails pretended to not notice.

“Yesterday . . . . you know who called?”

“GLAAD?”

Whoops. THAT slipped.

“Fuck off, Tails.”

“Sorry.”

“It was the fucking FBI, Tails! They wanted to talk to her!”

More tears dripped on the floor in the silence that followed.

“I . . . . . didn’t know what to tell them. I hung up, and when the phone rang again I unplugged it. Tails . . . . what am I gonna do?” She still wasn’t sobbing. “What if they think that she’s the one who’s doing it?”

“Come on,” he said softly, unconvinced of himself. “The FBI doesn’t make fuck-ups like that. The means don’t convict the ends.”