“Thanks,” he muttered, quietly, to the empty room after Anya had left.
Jimmy had spent his life doing everything the hard way. Getting what he wanted had always required force. Intimidation. Aggression. Violence. It was all he knew, and all he’d ever needed. Until now. Bleeding out, disoriented, too weak to sit up. Helpless. Vulnerable. The feeling was as foreign as it was unbearable. He had begged Anya for mercy, and the humiliation stung deeper than the gaping hole in his torso.
The time between Anya’s departure and return stretched into eternity. Jimmy felt the madness creeping in when he could smell leather balm and horse hair. So he talked to Polle to kill the time. Polle asked him if he was dying, Jimmy said he didn’t know. Polle asked him if he was guilty, and Jimmy said of course, but Polle kicked his limp shins and said he was lying. Jimmy had cried out and screamed he was going to burn Polle alive, and Polle had retorted, like Curly?
He drifted in and out of consciousness. Then, like an angel, Anya’s pale face came into view, along with the familiar green bottle. He could see the remaining pills inside. Relief surged through the pilot so suddenly he laughed. A crazy grin split his face, made his head hurt, and a thought cut through: if there had ever been a good time to be shot, it was now.
“Curly doesn’t need them?” he asked, looking up at Anya, so hopeful.
Polle popped up over Anya’s shoulder, his bulbous cartoon snout spread into a wide smile with huge white buckteeth. Polle says: A friend in need is a friend indeed!
The absurdity of it all - the child-like, playschool promise, the grotesque pain, the cartoon horse’s songs - it was insane. He was going insane. He thought he was laughing, but he was sobbing.
“Sure, I promise.” As if he could say no. Jimmy locked eyes with Anya, then glanced at Polle next to her. “I promised her, all right? Nothing will happen. Now fuck off.”
