Chapter 2

Right now, all I can think about is how terrible you smell.

Sure, I smile when I take your hand; I pretend to hang on your every word. But, as you're talking, on the inside I'm gagging. You're repulsive; you're noxious. Words can't begin to describe how little I can stand being near you right now.

Don't feel bad: you're not the only one. Every single person here is an invisible mess. Mayors and monsters, they all smell the same to me. Sure, try to hide it behind mouth wash; try to cover it up with cologne. Now you smell like mint-flavored garbage. Now you smell like lilacs and vinegar.

These benefit dinners are anything but beneficial. Millionaires brag about their millions; moguls network with politicians. Men of power. Men with money. Rich and powerful men. Served by children of servants; waited on by the lowly. Powerless men. Men with barely a penny and a name. Rot and disease, each and every one.

Only their money smells clean.

Their hands I take with revulsion; their cash, I take with zeal.

I excuse myself from the conversation. I'll do this seven times before the night is out. The grease and oil of a dozen palms lingers on mine. Disgusting. Filthy. My skin will be scrubbed raw when I return to the event; scrubbed bleeding when I escape home.

Home. My sanctuary. Where every tile is scrubbed brilliant. Marble, polished sanitary.

My home. My fortress.

I hang my coat in the closet, third slot from the left. My suit jacket, I unbutton; my tie, I loosen. With flared nostrils I devour fresh, clean, sterilized oxygen, while my hands fidget all the way to the bathroom. I can't get to my sink fast enough.

I fold my jacket and place it on the edge of my toilet; my tie, I fold and set parallel to my suit. Water rushes out, hot, into my porcelain sink while I roll up my sleeves.

I can smell you under my fingernails. I can smell the mayor on my wrist. On my knuckles is the aroma of men who are less visible but no less powerful; men whose influence touches towers of ivory and reach into alleys both deep and dark. Not a single one could wait to shake my hand. I smell each and every one upon my own.

My hands slip under the water. The steam lifts each despicable particle away. I close my eyes and sigh with relief.

That is when my shower curtains pull back. That is when a man in a blue trench coat steps out, wrapped in pale smoke. A faceless man.

He reaches his arms towards me. Reaches out, but not for my hand.

The last thing I smell is formaldehyde, burnt marshmallows, and blood.

The last thing I feel are his fingers over my throat.

I wish I hadn't shook your hand.