The bare bulb on the ceiling is singing a terribly droning tune. What's worse is Tram (I'm calling her Tram, like the word 'tramp' only more beautiful) is still speaking, adding unfitting lyrics to the song of the room. There is a small door behind Tram, who is on a chair, which is behind a table, which is a few feet away from where I am tied on my own chair altogether. The door is barred shut, so I won't be trying to make a break for it any time soon.

"She was a good woman, but she was very sad...at first." She wants a smoke. I can tell that she won't last ten more minutes without a smoke, or a hit. Her body is shaking, her eyes are unfocused and she is breathing in quick infuriating breathes. "She told me her name was Gene. She helped me get off of most of the drugs and was a good friend. She was the only one who had ever cared if I made it or not. Just when I, just when life was beginning to seem completely worthless, an angel came to me and showed me that there were still beautiful people in the world."

Oh, she was a good woman alright, at first. Before I met Gene, all she really wanted was to help drug addicts come clean. She might have wanted to save a few lives back then, but by the time I was introduced into her life, she was already dying. There was no helping it. When some one is surrounded by drugs all the time, it become a part of their life, and generally takes over.

I arrived after Gene had begun to kill herself, after her first drag, her first hit, her first line. Oh yes, I was there, and I helped her tear herself apart. I might have done it a bit more literally than she would have liked, but in the end, I did for her what she was slowly doing to herself. I gave her a few months of happiness, and then I tore her apart piece, by piece, by beautiful bloody piece.

She's reaching into her purse again, and this time, she brings out a pack of cigarettes. I knew she wouldn't last much longer. She digs a lighter out of her tattered jean pockets. It takes her a few tries, but she is able to produce a flame to start her smoke up. Her lips grab eagerly at the filter, sucking in the toxic fumes. She exhales and a trace of the smoke drifts my way. It disgusts me, this filth, this horrid substance. It's eating her alive, and taking what ever youth she had left.

"You didn't know her like I did. We had actually been classmates when we were in junior high." This is news to me. I never thought that these two women would have ever known each other. "We weren't friends, but it was a small school." She is relaxing now. Looking away from me more, and letting me work on getting free.

I try to think back to how I was brought here. I don't remember seeing this woman before, and trust me, I would have noticed her. I can't remember where I was, or what I was doing when I was abducted. The last memory I have (what a sweet memory it was) is dirt clots slowly hiding Genes face as I shoveled it into her shallow grave. I must have left, gone some where, done something, but I can't remember anything. That b**** Tram must have drugged me some how.

She's still talking, telling me things about her childhood, telling me about how wonderful Gene was. WAS. Why can't she see that Gene wasn't the same when I killed her? Gene wasn't the same beautiful girl she might have been a longtime ago. She was just another drug user. She was just another pet of lives. Chained, like a good pet, to society and obeying her master.

I tried to set her free, to be her new master, but she hadn't liked that idea. She had kicked, and screamed, and told me that she was her own master (wrong, He was her master, and even though she knew it, she denied it) and she wouldn't let a man control her, ever. I had tried to save my beautiful Gene, but in the end, the chain had strangled her, and I had finished the job.  

"She was a saint, and you killed her." She's interrupting my thought again. The picture of Gene in the dirt is fading away because Tram won't just shut up.

"Look lady," I say while flicking some hair out of my face, "I don't know who you are talking about, but it sure as hell aint the same girl I knew and loved." I'm grinning in my mind, so in love with the moment, even though Tram has to be a part of it. I love acting. The sounds of sincerity when all there is, is hate and justice.

"The Gene I knew was a drug addict, not much unlike yourself." It's only for a fleeting moment, but she is shocked. Her eyes are widening, her pupils dilating, and her lips are slightly parted. It's there for a split second, and then it's gone just as quick as you please. She crosses her leg and passes the cigarette passively from one hand to the other. But it's not passive, not one bit.

She inhales a deep drag from the filter. I hope she chokes on it. She's glancing at me from the corner of her eye, as if she is contemplating as to whether I am worthy of her gaze or not. But that's not really it, because SHE is not worthy of MY gaze. She knows it, and I know, and I know in this moment, that I will be the only one to leave this room.

The cigarette smoke seeps out of the corner of her mouth and dissipates into the air. It's a wonder a cloud of smog hasn't formed above her yet. It's more likely that I am breathing it in. I feel violated at the thought of her breathe, her DNA mixing with mine and mutating it's perfectness to something more like the formless shape she has become.

Oh, but it doesn't matter how hard she tries to tear me apart. She walks over behind me and checks the binds, again. I make her nervous. Just by defying her once, I have already shown that I am the master. I decide her fate. I look at my feet and continue.

"The Gene I know was murdered for the drugs that she clung so dearly to. She gave up her life for a permanent high." I allow a tear to roll down my cheek, but it doesn't fool Tram this time. She moves in front of me and lifts me chin so I am forced to look into her eyes.

"You don't fool me. You killed her, and now her blood is on your hands. But I'm not done yet. I still have a story to tell. It's not about Gene, not entirely. But by the end, you will realize why killing her was the biggest mistake you ever made." She pushes my face aside and strides back over to her chair behind the table.

She tries to walk elegantly, but she is clumsy on her three inch high stilettos. the cellulite clumps on the back of her legs kill any chance she had at nice legs, not to mention her yellow skin. She reaches the chair and slides into it neatly. Too bad I don't care much for graceful ladings. I prefer it when they crash and burn. She takes the cigarette and puts it out on the table as she draws a deep breath, so she can continue her story.  

Some where a president is declaring war, a democrat is screwing an underage kitty, a siren is blaring, a baby is crying, but none of that matters. Do you know why it doesn’t matter? It’s all inconsequential, because it's all up to me if they live or die. They all know it, and they are afraid of me. That's okay, because I plan on living forever, allowing them to live as well. One day, I will kill them all, but for now, I have my sites set on Tram. What a miserable b****. Lord, forgive me for my sins.