Good Rich People(77)

Bang!

She grunts, shifts in her bed. “Have you seen the people out there?” She indicates the window with her hand. “Living on the streets? For free— Well, not for free because I pay for it. I pay for it dearly, having to see all this hideousness every goddamn day.”

Bang!

“I’m convinced they killed my dog. Some poor person! They probably wanted her to eat!”

Bang!

Her knuckle cracks beneath my fingers. I want to kill her. I think how easy it would be. A silk pillow. No one around. Why should I be a good person when nobody else is?

Instead, I release her hand. She grunts, “You’re not done yet.”

“No, I am done.” I stand. “I don’t work for you. You don’t know me, so let me tell you who I am: I’m poor. And last night I fucked your son. And you know what? It was strictly ordinary.”





DEMI



I am going to kill them all. I don’t care if it’s just a game. I am low on bullets, so I head toward the gallery.

Bang!

I am going to take every last bullet. I’m going to cheat—so what? They all do all the time and no one says a word.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

I pass through the hall of mirrors and see Demi over my shoulder, just out of reach, running away from me. I spin and fire in one slick movement.

Bang!

I shoot myself in the mirror. I wasted a bullet on my own goddamn reflection.

This place is like an empire crammed into a house: armor and art and artifacts now lit with gold vomit. Someone to my left.

Bang!

“Bitch.”

“Give me your gun.”

But he doesn’t. He just frowns and runs off, gold paint bleeding down his pant leg like piss.

My temple throbs. I wish these were real bullets. The house is dark. It throbs with my head. I feel a line run down my forehead and think its blood. I wipe it away. It’s sweat.

The closer I get to the gallery, the more gold paint oozes down the walls. The party guests seem to have taken special care to destroy anything valuable, so all the paintings, all the statues, weep gold. One of them, I’m sure, is a Monet. Another could be a Rembrandt. My heart is pounding in my ears. I grip my gun.

I see the house I grew up in, how cluttered it was with furniture and cords and electronics, a tangle of wires on the floor. I trip. My hands are sweating. I can feel my breath pull through my lungs like I am threading a needle. Someone to my left.

Bang!

“Ack! You nearly took off my finger.”

I don’t apologize. “You’re out of the game.” My voice is a husky whisper. Every kill brings me closer to him, to Graham. What do I want from him: his money, his love, his head?

All my life I believed, I bought into this idea, that I was somehow worthless. That I should apologize for the tragedy of my existence while these people—

Bang!

—while these people—

Bang!

—blew my life to pieces. His money. His love. His head. It’s like a game of Russian roulette. And I’m down to one bullet.

The entryway blasts open, a vast chasm of gilt-laced ceiling, domed so it could be a stunt double for the sky.

“Hey—”

Someone to my right.

Bang!

He gags and grabs his throat. Gold paint lashes his face, burns in his eyes. He rubs them, blinded. “I was going to ask for a truce!” he says. “I was going to call a truce!”

I duck into the gallery. There is a long white table. There are no bullets. They took them all. Of course they did. That’s how they get you. That’s how they win.



* * *





I AM OUT of bullets. All I can do is die. But I won’t. I refuse.

I need to come up with something. If only the men I shot had surrendered their bullets. One of them had a whole belt tied around his waist. That’s it! The dead all have their bullets at their little garden party. I will take their ammo. I will take their guns. They’ll never see me coming. They never do.

I make my way to the edge of the party. I spot Lyla and her friend sitting at a table, guns tilted beside them. I wait until Lyla is looking the other way, caught up in conversation with the other woman. Then I slip in behind her, slide the gun from the table. It feels heavy. It’s probably still fully loaded. I want to get more but there are too many dead. Someone might see me, so I take Lyla’s gun and hurry back toward the garden.

I stop to check how many bullets it has, but I hear footsteps behind me. I see Lyla chasing after me, her dress a gold explosion. She’s out. What is she doing? Can’t she just let me have this?

“Wait!” she calls. “I need my gun!”

Can’t she just let me win?

I grip the gun and run away from her, bound down the stairs and race deeper into the garden. She keeps chasing me, flinging herself down the stairs.

I spin around, turn the gun on her. “I’m not in the game!” she says. She puts her hands up. “Look at me! I just need you to give me my gun back.”

Is she kidding? “No.”

“But it’s—” A figure rises from the bushes beside her. I tilt the gun. She puts her hands over her face. “Wha—”

Bang!

Dark blood slaps Lyla’s white face. Not gold. Not paint. Blood.