By Leigh B. Evans
There were countless places she could have found herself in, just like this one. Numerous bars scattered throughout similar cities, each encompassed by an atmosphere akin to the one surrounding it. Perhaps it was the rain smearing her cheap eyeliner, or the way her quivering bottom lip trembled in the November chill that permeated every inch of asphalt in this urban jungle. Nevertheless, I had an overwhelming sense that she needed assistance, and I felt compelled to do something about it. I contemplated buying her a drink and offering her a quiet spot at my booth, but I worried it might come across as an unwelcome advance.
That’s something I haven’t been inclined to do in a while, especially since Helena passed away. So, what options did I have as a guy like me? What if she wasn’t actually in trouble? Should I pretend I’m not losing my mind and maintain a positive demeanor?
Maybe I should wipe the drool that’s currently streaming down from the corner of my mouth or remove my hand from my coat pocket, the one concealing a well-assembled garrote, or conceal the visibly uncomfortable bulge at the front of my jeans. She was about to leave; she needed me, she needed help. I was the only one who could assist her in escaping this reality, experiencing the pure, ecstatic embrace of death.
Leigh’s Chaos 