Page 15 of Violent Possession

The nearest bar is a ten-square-meter dive that I (shamefully) go to sometimes. With the prosthesis back on, covered by a long wool sleeve, people don’t stare at me as much, too entertained by a dirty glass of whiskey and an out-of-tune song from a fucked-up jukebox.

The bartender has a grease stain on his shirt. I’m going to get a viral gastrointestinal infection in here. I order a whiskey. The music is a tearjerker country song about losing your dog and your wife, not necessarily in that order.

I down the first glass in one go.

“Hey.”

The voice is familiar. I order another whiskey from the bartender, who looks at me like I’m something that just crawled out of the sewer.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here,” she insists.

Now I turn. It’s the girl from last night. She doesn’t look as confident under the cheap yellow light of this bar. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, and her hair is tied up messily. She looks more tired. More boring.

“Tough luck for you,” I say, taking my second glass.

She ignores my kindness. “Look, about last night... I was an idiot. I said some stupid shit.”

I shrug.

“Seriously,” she says, moving closer, sitting on the stool next to me. She smells like soap. “I didn’t mean it like that. It was stupid.”

“Okay,” I say, and take another sip. This conversation has already gone on too long.

She stays silent, watching me. I hate that.

Suddenly, the country music chokes.

“What the fuck was that?” a big guy yells from the other side of the bar. Without that annoying beat, his voice is louder. “I paid for that music!”

The bartender shrugs. He’s already buried the jukebox in a coffin. “It’s broken. It happens.”

“The hell it happens! I want to hear Johnny Cash!”

I stand up. I take my glass of whiskey and walk over to the jukebox. The girl watches me; everyone watches me. The big guy glares at me, ready to fight over fucking Johnny Cash.

The machine is just there: an old piece of junk with dead lights and a dusty glass panel.

I set my glass on the bar and hit the side of it with my hand.

Nothing. The jukebox stares back at me. A hunk of iron laughing in my face.

Okay, fine. You want to do this the hard way.

“It’s not going to work,” the bartender says.

“Yes, it will.”

I kick it. The glass cracks and the jukebox groans. Still not dead.

The few people in the bar shrink back.

“Hey, psycho, what the fuck!” the bartender yells.

I kick it again. And again. The girl stands up, her hand over her mouth. The big Johnny Cash fan doesn’t look so brave anymore.

On the fifth kick, the glass shatters. The machine lets out an electric whine and, out of nowhere, a song starts to play. It’s not Johnny Cash. It’s some pop shit about summer love. Close enough.

I grab my glass from the bar just to down the rest of the whiskey. The bartender stares at me, pale. I toss some crumpled bills near him.