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Never Trust an Angela

You can’t trust a woman named Angela.

Name anyone you’ve met named Angela who actually behaves like an angel.

Remember those times when we were younger, when we were still innocent about love?

Angela was my crush.

I met her in French class. Instantly, I thought, I’ve got to try and hit on this chick. She was an Aussie, right—but she was Asian Aussie, so she was born here but her parents were from Hong Kong. And just from her confidence and the expensive stuff she wore, you knew her parents were rich, and you could just tell that she was someone who never struggled with love.

If in some bizarre world she were to become a writer like you and me, she would never write about love. Because it never would’ve been something that bothered her. Maybe she’d write action movies, or better yet, she’d get some simp like me to write her a beautiful movie about love for her – and he’d do it, happily, without asking for any money. Because whatever, right?

Anyway, this girl, Angela, I had no confidence to talk to her. I was this skinny, dorky guy with absolutely no game.

So I spent 6 months in the gym. I spent 6 months watching thousands of hours of YouTube vids on dating, on sales.

I’m an introvert, you know this right? Even if I hated it, every uni group project I had—I volunteered, with much pain, to be the leader and the presenter; I even took up Toastmasters—I was serious, and I was seriously in love with someone who didn’t know I existed.

Fast forward six months, and I’ve became this wannabe Chad guy and guess what?

It worked.

I somehow charmed my way into getting someone way out of my league to have a drink with me in this bar named Fat Louie’s.

I wait in Fat Louie’s with a whiskey in my hand, but for once I don’t wait long. She turns up: perfectly dressed, expensive perfume, expensive everything, looking so good—and as she made her way towards me I quickly learnt something—if you want an easy life, you should only admire sirens from a distance. If you want an Angela, you’ve got to be prepared that everyone else wants an Angela. On her phone are literally hundreds of men who are better looking than you, who are more accomplished than you, and who will be willing to betray and murder you just for a text back from her.

Before Angela even reaches me, someone—this huge guy with these huge biceps and a tear drop tattoo on his face—walks up to her and asks for her number. But it wasn’t so bad because she did this thing that made me feel like the luckiest guy in the world—she brushes him off, and she sits in front of me, and we talk.

I was in such bliss that I don’t even remember what we talked about. All that kept running through my head was that wow, she rejected a guy and she’s now talking to me, she’s giggling at my jokes, she’s patting my arm and twirling her hair, and all this time I’m thinking and thinking and thinking, Please don’t let this dream end, please don’t go home, and most importantly, please don’t tell me you have a boyfriend!

And then she mentions her boyfriend.

For 30 seconds, my world comes crashing down. But then I remember my six months of hard work—you think doing Toastmasters was fun? I breathed in. I can work with this. So Angela and I keep having drinks and by now, instead of sitting in front of me, she’s sitting next to me.

I quickly take a toilet break, but when I come back this gang of huge African dudes had invited her to their pool table, and they’re laughing together, and one of them just straight out kisses her. She kisses him back, and they laugh, and he gets her phone number and he says bye and then she joins me again.

I know. If you’re listening to this story, you’ll say, That’s a red flag! Just leave, you pussy. But you weren’t there, and you’re a hypocrite, because you would’ve also stayed.

We drank some more (I’m drinking even more now to try and forget what just happened) and make sure to remember this part: she stares at my neck for maybe twenty, thirty seconds, and when she does this, stupid old me, I say, “I think I’m in love”.

Angela giggles, and she brushes her hair behind her ear, and in that moment I remembered being a kid again, when you could pick up any object and look at it as if it was the most amazing and beautiful thing in the world. This was truly peak joy.

Angela grabs my hand and says, “Let’s go for a drive.”

I say, with absolute timidity, “but we’ve been drinking.” And she says nothing, so I follow her blindly like she was an object of worship.

Her car was obviously a very expensive car, and it was obviously given to her by her very rich dad. She drove like a madwoman, and part of me was thinking, Man up, tell her to stop or else we’ll die or worse yet, kill someone! But then the bigger, more selfish part of me was thinking, I had never felt this free in my life. I had stuck by the rules for eternity and all it brought me was a terrible loneliness. And my heart leapt around excitedly as everything outside became this ridiculous blur. She completed me, and I was a kid again, and the future was an adventure, and life was a sweet mystery.

And this is when things got messed up. We were on the high way, speeding to the Gold coast. She was wearing this short skirt, so she pulls down her panties (they were lace, by the way) and throws them to the back of the car.

She turns to me. “There are some pills in the glove compartment. You can take one, and like, I want you to put the other one in my arse as we drive.”

I stared at her and immediately thought about the bacteria. She had no hand sanitiser in her car and she definitely wasn’t the type who would want to stop over somewhere after the deed to let me wash my hands. No matter how pretty Angela was, I was never going to do this. I was just not an arse person. I tried to make up excuses, like I can’t find the pills, and as I stuttered along I kept trying to change the subject so hopefully, since she was druink, she’d forget. But she kept insisting—”Put that pill in my arse, Dean!”

When I kept trying to change the subject she lifted her finger up and said, “If you also put a pill up your arse, we both get to go to a parallel dimension.”

Parallel dimension? That was a weird thing for her to say.

But before I could think much of that she screams, and there’s this strong jolt, and I see, through the windscreen, the night sky and city lights and all these strange things spinning fast, violently. Angela let go of the wheel and let destiny take control. My head jolted hard in several directions, and I thought my neck was going to snap and I was instantly going to die as the car rolled along goodness knows where.

Was I paralysed? Was this it? Were we dead? I was scared to even look down at my legs just in case I couldn’t move them. The only sound I could hear came from Angela’s phone. It was from her purse, from her phone—she was getting a bunch of text messages. Just this loud beeping, constant beeping, constant messages, as if a thousand people wanted to angrily text her at the same time. I turn to her and she’s just slouched there, her head down. She wasn’t moving. It didn’t look like she was breathing. I tried to say something but stopped. I started again but stopped again. And then finally, I ask, with complete fear, a kind of fear I’d never ever felt until then, “Are you okay?”

The beeping on her phone completely stops. And I will never forget this: Angela looks up, and her eyes, I don’t know, maybe it was because of the lighting, but they’re like, yellow, a pure yellow, a pristine yellow I had never seen.

Angela says, “You should’ve put that pill up my arse.”

I don’t know how to react so I just laugh, and she laughs, but her eyes, they’re still yellow, and once again, she’s stares at my neck. She moves forward and I think, “This is the worst occasion for a first kiss” and I lean forward, but she moves towards my neck, and she bites, she bites hard. She bites so hard I actually hear her teeth enter my flesh—I try to push her away but she didn’t let go and I want to push harder but am afraid that in doing so I’d make her tear a huge chunk out of my neck.

And then I felt my blood leaving me. And what I think about the most, even today, is the sound she made as she drank my blood. It sounded like a baby in its mother’s arms, hungrily drinking milk.

I knew then and there that Angela had me, that she’d won, that I was her meal and it was all over. But this was one of those “you had to be there things” because it actually felt good. It was like that feeling you have when you finally chuck a shit after holding it in for way too long: it was this crazy release, my heart pumping to give me blood, and me desperately offering my blood to her.

But what’s wild is I don’t die. Angela eventually pulls away. We got out of the car and stumbled around to realise the car had rolled down some hill. We walked silently for thirty minutes until we found a Maccas. I ordered a Fillet-O-Fish and she has a Triple Cheeseburger, and we ate in silence, and we both got picked up by her boyfriend in his G Wagon. None of us said anything in the ride until the boyfriend—this skinny guy with big eyes—turned around and said, “Okay we drop you off at the nearest bus stop bro?”

And I said, “Sure,” and he dropped me off and Angela stops replying to my texts and she never returns to French class and I never hear from her again until ten years later, when I see her post a photo of her with this bald guy and a baby, and so I comment on it, and say, Congrats, I’m so happy for you! And she reacts with a like, but never writes anything back.

Anyway, Angela, I hope you enjoyed this short story and that your husband can use it for his next film. Don’t worry, I didn’t write it with ChatGPT haha, if you want any changes, just let me know, happy to do them lol, and I know you’re busy, but if you wanted to have lunch some day, I am always available, but all good if you’re busy. If you need anything, call me, text me, message, any time.