remy (or, of all the ways to end something) : a short story
That boy who hit you at school is on crutches now. I thought it might give you some pleasure. Kind of a revenge thing. Does it?
No.
Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’re not really like that.
No.
Is that all you say to me now? No?
No.
You’re such a so-and-so. You know that?
I do now.
Good.
Did you put him there?
Who?
Whom, you mean.
Sure. Whom?
The boy who hit me. Who broke my nose and all that. Did you put him on crutches?
Why would I do that? You really think I love you that much? Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Not even for you.
It’s good to know you have a limit. On your fondness for me.
You’re smart, Remy. You know that? You’re a smart guy.
I know.
I know you know, Remy. That’s another thing, you’re so fucking arrogant.
That boy seemed to think so. That’s why he hit me, I guess. To bring me down a bit.
That makes sense.
You sympathize with him?
No. Not really. I’ve been there before, though. In that place where you want to see someone hurt. Someone bleed.
You’re a slender person. I doubt that would ever happen. Where you’d be able to, I mean.
No, Remy. I was wildly unsuccessful. I got beat up often. More, even, than you.
Not surprising. Hard for one of us, yes? People like you and me. In school.
Yes.
I don’t hold contempt for that boy. It was a while ago.
A couple weeks.
Really that little? Feels like longer.
Just before graduation.
Yes. I was getting my cap and gown. From the office. When it happened.
Ah, yeah. I knew it.
You know a lot of things, don’t you?
I do?
Always.
You like that, Remy? About me?
Never. Well…
You’d rather be with someone less smart. An imbecile. To contrast with yourself.
No.
You don’t love me anymore.
What does that even mean?
I mean you don’t love me anymore. Or you never did.
Yeah, maybe.
I hope you hate to say it. I hope it makes you sad. To say that.
Somewhat.
That’s you, Remy, somewhat. You’re a half-measure. A point five.
No. Maybe. I’m just indifferent.
So fucking indifferent.
Yes.
Of all the ways to end something, Remy, like this?
What?
Of all the ways to end something. You’re going to do it, then? End it, like this?
Yes.
Okay. Okay.
I hoped so too, you know. I hoped it would make me sad.
by camille pirtle
This short story was originally written in Spring of 2022 in Chicago, Illinois. It is an experiment with dialogue. It has been previously published in Expression.
