HIM .. Joe Goldberg

BATTERED

HANNAH IS BETWEEN US on the couch and she's resting her head on your arm and I don't like it, Joe. Not one bit.

You've been paying attention to her since we got settled, and I get it. She has a black eye, she has crusted blood under her nose, she needs support, but what the fuck. I brought you here for me, Joe, and right now it's like you've forgotten I even exist.

Hannah nuzzles into you. We're watching a horror movie, I turn up the volume to hear the screams. Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the original one. I imagine myself in a house full of horror, grinning. Then I imagine Hannah. My smile broadens.

She sighs. "Thank you so much for being here." She's talking to you, Joe. Not me. Even though she doesn't say this directly, I know. The end of your curly hair touches her lips, she's on the crook of your neck. I tap the volume button again. "I was so scared."

"That guy was awful," you say in disgust, and what the fuck Joe? Why are you encouraging her? "I'm happy I was here, too." Oh, what a hero. Screw you, Joe. You came here to fuck me, not to rescue some chick in distress.

Tap the volume button. The screams become louder, the chainsaw echoes off the walls. Hannah shoots me a look, but I just smile.

But then you glance at me, too. I suddenly feel self conscious. "Brit, it's kinda loud." You say.

"Sorry," I mutter, tapping the button the other way. "I like this part."

"It's alright, you love horror movies. We understand." Hannah smiles.

Fuck.

You.

"Oh, my bad. I guess I got absorbed. What were you saying, Hannah?"

You ever see Mean Girls, Joe? Probably not, but if you did you'd know that there are rules to being a girl. The main rule is that if you're having a fight, you can't make it seem like you really care. There are tactics you must follow, special daggers to shoot that nobody else would have ever noticed. You draw blood without anyone batting an eye.

Hannah is as professional as I am at being a bitch, and she quickly replies: "It's okay, Brit. It was nothing important for you."

Fucking bitch.

You smile.

I clench my jaw.

I rest my hand on your thigh and try to drag your attention back towards me. You turn your head and you meet my eyes and grin, and suddenly it becomes clear why you came. You remember Vintage, how much fun we had. How heated we were in the lobby.

You lean forward.

Hannah bounces up from the couch. "Shit. I'm still in a bad fucking mood. Who wants to take shots?" She walks to the refrigerator, opens the freezer and takes out my bottle of vodka.

My bottle. That I wanted to share with you. Privately.

Okay, Joe. I can take a lot. Believe it or not, I'm not usually the jealous type. I can take girls flirting with you, as long as I know that you only have heart eyes for me. But right now, you're looking at Hannah with a wide smile. You like the bottle in her hand, you like her low cut tank top. If I wasn't here, would you be drawn to try something with her?

I wish I could rely on my friends, but I always knew you were too good to show. Everyone wants a piece of you, you're fucking beautiful. Why wouldn't they? But you're mine, Joe. Only I can have what they dream about. When I see someone interested in what I have, I grow protective. It's only nature, sweetheart. You'd feel the same way if I was grinning at one or your male friends, wouldn't you, Joe? 

How would you handle a situation like this? So delicate, yet you know she's a whore. Remember the fight that brought us together in the first place? At Vintage? She slept with Charlie, and I was so upset. She's about to preform it again, hurt me again. Will you let her?

Hannah is a hard person to say no to, I can admit that. She's beautiful: skinny, long dark hair and doe like eyes. She's a pretty nymph that feeds off your attention, but I'm a goddess, Joe. I'm Britannia. I am the great deity that England still mourns, and goddesses always rule over insignificant nymphs.

I stand up, because goddess aren't desperate. If they want someone, they don't chase. They make it fucking happen. I smile at the two of you, how happy Hannah is as she settles beside you with a bottle of chilled, frostbit vodka. You know that I'm better, you eyes follow me as I rise, lips falling into a confused frown. I love it, Hannah hates it. She purses her lips as she untwists the tan cap. "Where you going?"

"I need a smoke." My voice is airy, cute. Sexy. You remember me in my red dress. "Have a shot, Joe. Have fun." You better fucking not.

You fidget. "You want me to come out?"

"She said have a shot," Hannah giggles, resting a hand on your shoulder. I don't flinch, my smile is wide and assured. "You don't smoke, do you?"

"No." You ease under her touch. "But-"

"Have a cig, Brit. We'll keep your seat warm for when you come back."

I chuckle. I'm sure you will, Hannah.

The wind slaps my face with a frosted shock. It whips my hair across my face, I can hardly spark my lighter let alone lite my cigarette. There's no cars, which is rare for New York. Everything is still except for the gods, who rage in the form of dangerously cold and angry weather. They feel my wrath.

Have you watched Thirteen Reasons Why, Joe? It's on Netflix. It's a bullshit teenage drama with just enough ridiculous angst to keep the viewer engaged. The main character is named Hannah, and—spoiler alert!—she kills herself. Wouldn't it be awful if our Hannah did the same?

Wouldn't it?

Not so much? I thought the same.

I finish my cigarette and walk into my apartment building with an optimistic smile, imagining Hannah laying herself across you, kissing your neck. Do you remember my lips on the same place? It's okay. She'll be gone soon. Everyone will mourn her death, wonder what happened. Where did things go wrong?

I know exactly where things went wrong.