Violet

So say there's this dude and he's eating this filthy, half-fermented burrito from some spic's waste of a 7/11. Or say this never happened. Say the sky's like the wastepaper basket in an ER – red and purple and black which seems to be streaked over the clouds, not the other way around. It makes Heaven look impure and stained. It makes you smile, kind of.

Say your two friends are beside you and one says the dude looks like a homo – you can all see it, see it in the delicate way his mouth comes across his food… The way his cheek dimples as he eats. The way he looks at you guys, looks away quickly; doesn't make eye contact again. Like he's saying he's better than you guys, kind of. Like, dismissing you.

Say you call out to him. Say he throws his burrito on the shitty asphalt. Say a plane rolls overhead like thunder or the hunger pains deep inside you. Say you run after the faggot.

Say you let him go.

Say you yank up his gay Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt, scoff at the little Edwardian Script "Madeline" on the back of his neck. Which bitch tagged him? Mother? Sister? Girlfriend? Wife?

His spine feels so good under your palm, the way it arcs to try and get away. Like his entire being is rejecting what's happening.

"Say no more," you coo, "Say no more."

It's, like… Sublime.

But his screams light up the alleyway though. "Help!" Red. "Rape!" Violet. And when he's muffled… that's black.

Say the symmetry is almost better than your friends' catcalls. Say you're looking up into that demented sky and praising some pagan deity that's smiling down on this feral release. Say you shudder. He's passed out. His face is pallid. Chalky. There's blood on your hands. Your friends pushing you away. His turn.

Say you smear the blood on the back of your friend as he grunted. You can see the fat veins in his neck, it's going… It's violet.

Say you let him go.

Say you heard that rustle in the alleyway, the paco taking out his trash. Say the police never came. They did. You hear the sirens, but you all grin at each other. You're hidden. You've been hidden all this time. He's quiet; gentle repose; blood, sweat slicked over his delicate, dimpled cheek. He murmurs a quiet prayer in his sleep; your friend murmurs a quiet slight, "Yeah! You fuckin' like that, faggot?"

Say the police saw your two friends, not you. You've always had that luck. Say you shimmy up a fire escape when you hear their first proclamation of, "Police!" Your friends are too busy with the faggot. They're too busy with their dicks and their release. Say you're looking out to the lights, the way they flash like a cover over this story below you: red, blue – violet where they meet in the middle, over the faggot's tortured body.

Say your friend gave you up, pointed up towards you; if that fucker's going down, you're going down too.

Say he doesn't out of loyalty.

Say you're up there now. Your chest and ribs flat against the railing; heart hammering so loud you can feel it in your ears, each palpitation blurring your sight. You're waiting. Say you're waiting…