CLIVE CONFESSES - Anthony Neil Smith

The first time, I strung up a contraption of fishing line and furniture. The shotgun was supposed to fire at me when my lover opened the bedroom door after arriving home from work (she was a personal assistant to a tax attorney). I messed up somehow. On hearing her grab the doorknob I braced myself for impact, but instead watched the gun spin clockwise and upside-down and blow her face off. Maybe it was the shock of still living, or the disappointment of living to see that, but I hightailed it out of there.

The second time, I had bought a pack of four-blade disposables, thinking four was better than one, and planned it so I’d gash my wrist in the kitchen sink just as my next lover was arriving home from work (flight attendant). Soon as the door swung open, I bit the blades into my skin. Hurt like a bitch, paper cut times a hundred, but they were designed for safety and I couldn’t get deep enough and I realized why the old-fashioned ones were better. My lover was screaming and crying and promising never to cheat again (I didn’t know she was cheating anyway) and grabbing my wrists, slipping off with all the blood. By the time I grabbed the dirty steak knife from the sink to try again, she and I were doing an Olympic wrestling waltz around and around, hands slapping, shoulders nudging. Too slippery. The knife accidentally ended up in her neck.

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