Who Did I Kill?

I’m sure I must have murdered someone.

My eyes are crusted closed with sleep and clumped mascara. Mouth feels like the desert after a fraternity party. There are french fries and McDonald’s wrappers littered across my bed. A stray half eaten cheeseburger, cold from its night long nap. Empty and half squeezed ketchup and BBQ sauce packages stick to my feet as I stumble to the bathroom. The mirror. Oh my God. What did I do?

I creep over to the window and look outside. I see my car. Parked perfectly in its tiny, thin, one car only spot. But. What the FUCK?

Outside my front door now, I stare with deserted eyes at my car. It is totaled. TOTALED. The boys who live upstairs are outside having a smoke. Laughing down at me. “Someone had a rough night.” They say. The group laughs. And I move back inside. Slow motion.

I look for my purple pager and see it is blinking at me. What time is it? Oh my god. There are several messages from The Doctor. I am in big trouble now. He’s going to kill me. What did I do last night?


The day before I had received a “page” from my, well, I guess the nice word would be pimp. He was my patient, too. And the owner of a large bagel chain. I should say, he was our patient. As in, he’d come in, pay cash, get clean pee to hand over to his probation officer and some FenPhen and quality grade uncut ecstasy to give to the girls he “managed.” Everyone in LA is famous for something. Maybe he’d get his blood drawn and blood pressure checked, just so we’d have something legitimate to document in his medical file. This was life at the medical office. A store front operation for the sinister inner workings of a rotten core.

Since the Doctor had declared “Darlin’, you were made for fucking” I had resigned myself to that notion. Here I thought I was getting some power back. The asshole boyfriend had been kicked to the curb and I had asked for a raise. I got a raise all right. Or should I call it A Lower?

In only a few days I had learned of my fate. Was it a choice? Yes. But I thought it was all I was worth. It had been confirmed. The Doctor had said so. I was only good for fucking.Dr. X took me to a fancy Hollywood house party. He paraded me around like his new toy. I immediately took to sucking down the champagne I’d probably never afford to taste on my own. He stiffly held my arm in a fatherly type grip as we worked the room. Within a half hour an “offer” had been made. I can’t mention the star’s name because I am still. Afraid. After. All. These. Years. I hate you. I run from you.

The ugly ass star offered $5,000 for the night. (I’m talking, HIDEOUSLY ugly. Why else would he have to pay so much?) The Doctor had made his own deal with me for a 70/30% split is his favor. FUCKER. I chugged champagne. There was a gnawing inside. I could not make myself do it. Could I? I got so drunk at the party Dr. X took me home and scolded me. What on earth would that man have made me do for $5,000?

I was then “licensed” to the Bagel Shop Owner and he was to dole out my assignments. I think I was too strong headed for Dr. X. He wanted to point and shoot me like a camera. I had some pride. Did I?

I still remember driving down Santa Monica Blvd. when I got The Page. I can still hear the sound the beeper made and it makes me wince if I ever hear it in a movie, or old TV show. I pulled over and called pimp daddy Bagel Man. The plans were in motion. I had agreed to my first client.

That night I drank two cold bottles of cheap white zinfandel. The thought makes me gag today. But it was my soul candy. I blasted Alanis Morisette’s “Bitter Pill” as I slicked my hair back into a sleek flamenco bun. Long red skirt with tiny white flowers that belled at the bottom and hugged my curves. Tight black dancer’s top and a red beaded choker. Glitter in my cleavage. Red lips. Shoulders back. I can do this. 

I barely remember driving to the Sunset strip. I don’t remember the name of the hotel. But I know it by the throw up that knocks at my chest when I drive by it. I was early to arrive. Old habits never die. I ordered a bottle of wine, and waited while the staff seemed to watch me out of the corner of their eyes. They must know what I am up to. Guzzle. Guzzle. 

Bagel Man showed up first. He was there to make the deal. And then came Pit Boss. A big, huge, fat and tall beast of a man from Las Vegas. Bald. Waddling. He had to be about 400 pounds and well over 6’5″. I am short but I lie on my driver’s license and was wearing black stiletto heels. Shoulders back. Head high. That’s the way we like to die.

I remember little about our dinner. I just know that Bagel Man left at some point.

I can still smell him. He laid there liked a beached whale, naked on the bed, saying “Come to Papa.” It was dark but the bathroom light was on. I excuse myself and close the door. Mirror. There she is again. Hello? Where are you? I look pretty. Where is my Anne Taylor jacket? Fuck! What the hell am I doing? Fuck! You can’t do this. You can’t. The person in the mirror shakes her head. A solid and resolved eye contact is made. RUN!

His smell of baby powder and pasta sauce lingered in the air as I swiped the cash off the dresser and walked straight out of the room, letting the heavy door slam shut behind me. I knew it would take him a minute to realize what had happened. I RAN. I took my heels off and ran. When I got down to the valet station I was crying. “Get my car, get my car.” I lied to them and told them a bad man was chasing me. They helped me. I don’t know how I was forming sentences by then. Screech.


7/11. I must be buying smokes. Someone slips me a piece  of paper. They are all staring at me from the parking lot. What the hell is their problem?

I “come to” in a sizzling moment of clarity. I am at the window of the drive thru at McDonald’s. I guess I have started shoveling fries into my mouth and dipping them in BBQ sauce (my favorite) and it must be all over my face, because the person behind the window is staring wide eyed at me like a spooked owl. I look in the mirror. No BBQ sauce. What’s taking them so long? They are looking for change for my stoeln $100 bill, I think. And then, I see more faces gather at the steamy window. What are they—

White Smoke. Billowing from the front of my car. What WAS the front of my car, which is now more like the splattered face of my car, smashed in.  It’s sputtering and coughing. Get me home, it says. Those poor McDonald’s workers. I must have given them a new item to add to their “What the fuck was THAT?” list. They will not take my money. They are shooing me away. GO. GO. Their hands say. The drive thru window is kept closed. What’s their problem?


Unthrown up food digesting in my belly and on the side of my bed are more empty cheeseburger carcasses. Bags and trash all over. Wow. I must have ordered enough food for an army. The army of lost souls and painted faces.

Beep. Beep. Beep. It’s the Doctor. I gather the courage to call and check my messages.

“Ummmm. DARLIN’ it’s Dr. X. Give me a call, will ya?” Beep.

“Uhh. Yeah. HI. I heard from your date last night. He is Not Happy. You really fucked up, sweetie.” Beep.

“Listen. YOU need to make it up to this guy. [Bagel Man] is PISSED. You need to get on the phone right now and make arrangements to meet with Pit Boss. And BRING HIM MOTHER FUCKING FLOWERS.” Beep.

I scramble through my purse, looking for clues. I’m still in my clothes. So that’s good. Where is my Anne Taylor jacket?? I find a crumpled piece of paper in my wallet. And three crumpled hundred dollar bills. What are these? Oh my god. What did I do? On the paper is a name, and a phone number. With “AA” written in quotation marks. Must have been the people at 7/11. Oh my God. Who drove me home?

I go back out to my car. Not only is it unrecognizable, the metal on the right has cut so deep into the front passenger side tire, it is a mangled death of blackness. Completely flattened. The engine is smashed like an accordion file. The windshield is a breath away from shattered. There are black and orange streaks along the entire right side of the car. I can’t look anymore. The smoking boys above are still amused and looking down at me. Mocking me.

How did I get home? An angel. An angel must have driven you home. Look at your car. You should be dead.

Oh my God. I stole the guy’s money. Oh my God. I ran out without doing it. Oh my God. My boss is going to murder me. Oh my God. WHO DID I KILL?


The Cockroach

Note: this is a flashback that I finally talked about in last week’s EMDR session. If you want a little background, you can check out:

The Good Doctor

Trauma Driven Life


Copyright © 2019 Kissing The Cockroach® All Rights Reserved.

~ by Kissing The Cockroach® on March 28, 2012.

7 Responses to “Who Did I Kill?”

  1. OK. I pushed LIKE

    I actually love the way you write and your story is both gripping and horrifying and yet

    here you are!

    You are here. You made it and are doing the work to get this stuff out.

    man. you got guts!

    Peace, Jen

  2. wow that is scary 😦 all of it.

  3. I am AMAZED at your courage my friend. You have a voice and you are using it… and that is beautiful. As I read your story I thought “Wow” because I felt scared for you, worried for you, and glad that angels must have driven you home. I plan to read the background stories as well… right the frick now! You rock… keep telling your story… get the sludge out. You are a beautiful person… ♥

  4. What a great read! True story? I help lift you up to the heavens….so happy you’re safe.

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