KMS by DANIELLE CHELOSKY
February 28 2025We were on a date and I made a joke about wanting to kill myself. “You really shouldn’t talk like that,” he said. “I’ve had friends commit suicide. It’s a terrible thing.” We were smoking cigarettes on the back patio of an art gallery that hosted live music shows. That night an experimental pop band was playing and the synths leaked into the outdoors.
“Sorry,” I said as if I’d tied the nooses around his friends’ necks. I felt a strange jealousy that he could say I’ve had friends commit suicide and I couldn’t because I hadn’t had any friends commit suicide, which made me feel like I had fewer friends than him or something.
It also made him sound like he had history. He was seven years older than me and I wanted him to take care of me. He took me home and fucked me on his couch. Drunk, I asked him to spit on me and call me a slut. He did and then he came on my stomach. He slid his finger through the cum and forced it onto my tongue. When he ghosted me after, I drank Vermouth and left him angry voicemails. I was nothing but a whore to you, wasn’t I? Next time you’ll have to pay me, bitch. I didn’t know why I cared so much.
I liked his apartment’s creaky hardwood floor and big windows. I wanted him to fuck me on the couch until his sperm created a baby inside of me, and then I wanted to get a crib and paint some walls canary yellow and put covers on the outlets. Your friends probably killed themselves because of you, you scumbag. But I hadn’t actually thought this through or anything. For instance, I liked cigarettes too much. Nine months without nicotine sounded bleak. I could probably give up drinking for that long, but not both. I’d given up drinking once before and it was easy. Instead of being addicted to drinking you become addicted to not drinking. But it was awfully boring, so I went back to being addicted to drinking. Maybe I’ll kill myself and blame you in my suicide note. No, I’m not going to do that. You should kill yourself! You perverted fuck!
Our baby would be a girl and I’d name her Ruby. Ruby would have my brown hair and his silver-blue eyes. The pregnancy would be draining but rewarding. I’d get Ruby a pet hamster and teach her how to treat it well. We would sit on her bedroom floor together and watch the hamster run through colorful tubes. One day Ruby would absentmindedly leave the cage open and the tiny creature would escape, scampering behind dressers and into the walls until starving to death. She would sob and learn grief. Ruby would get older and edgier, slamming doors and blasting angsty music. She’d make a joke about wanting to kill herself and I’d say, Honey, you can’t say that, we’ve had friends commit suicide. It’s a terrible thing.
Danielle Chelosky is a writer from New York. She is the author of Pregaming Grief.
https://www.daniellechelosky.com/