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I'm not going to go: I don't want to go. I never need to see him, again; I saw him enough in life -- what difference does it make, now? I don't have to go, and nobody really wants me to: I know the truth. I'm not stupid, I can see how they look at me, with those wary eyes. He never looked at me like that, but they do -- all the time -- because they hate me. I'm not going.
" . . . That was the latest sing--," the radio clicked on just long enough for a pale, white hand to dart out and strike the alarm button, coming out from under the covers of the bed like a snake after its prey. The mass underneath the grey blankets waffled about, shifting and turning. Visible at the head of the bed was a tangle of hair, the auburn-tinted sign of life in the cataclysmic scene of this bedroom.
Nobody is going to be asking about me, there; nobody is going to know I'm missing. Because, as far as they're concerned, I'm not missing, I didn't belong -- not in their precious family. Sure, they could point and tut about me, but they'd never admit to anything wrong with him. He was an angel, I was a devil: that's the way they saw it. I'm sure they blame everything on me, too: all the drug business. Jesus Christ, fuck them all.
Clad in a black t-shirt that loosely clung to her body, a girl of somewhere in her late teens sat in the bed, her waist wrapped in sheets around. A picture that was almost like a little girl --lost in a sea of fabric -- waiting for rescue. Her eyes peered blearily into the light of day that was coming in through the one window in the room, while reddish-brown strands of hair fell over her face, into her mouth. Distastefully smacking her lips, she slowly lifted a hand and pulled the hair out of her mouth, spitting and coughing.
What difference does it make? Even if I were there, what difference . . . ? He's dead, and gone; funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the mourners. A morbid march to the graveyard in the overcast midday sky, little black figures against the foggy backdrop like soldiers on a bleak battlefield . . . They carry the coffin like a lost comrade, bearing it upon their shoulders like it's a favour to the corpse for them to be carrying it. In the end, they barely knew him, they barely cared for him -- it's a sham, fraudulence. They'll pause before the tombstone and recite their prayers to a deaf heaven, moving their lips in synchronised motion and hugging themselves in the cold air. Hah, what meaninglessness . . .
Standing in the middle of the mess of a room, the girl rubbed her eyes and then stretched her arms out, yawning. Blinking her eyes multiple times, she scratched her thigh and looked around at the floor, in search of something with her newly-awakened eyes. She had a moderately attractive figure, with an amount of fat not in obese excess clinging to her abdomen and hips; at somewhere near halfway between five and six feet, she was hardly short nor tall. One of the only notable features about her was the scar running along her left inner-thigh, tracing from above her knee to end at her panty-line. She shivered faintly -- cold, wearing merely the shirt -- moving around and kicking at the clutter on the floor.
It's not fair, really: I was always nice to them. I put on a good face, when I did see them, at the grocery store or in the street. They ignored me, still, even as a smiled and waved and bid them a good morning, evening, night or whenever it happened to be. Too good to associate with the riff-raff, huh? Heaven forbid you tarnish your pristine status in such a foul manner, indeed! . . . I guess I shouldn't say they all ignored me, there was that one little kid (his cousin). Nice boy, he didn't belong in that family. I remember that one time I saw him walking down the street with who was probably his mother: I called out, "Hello," and he started to try and walk over and say something. His mom just tugged on his arm and shot me this regretful, apologetic look; then, they kept walking.
Leaning down and yanking up a pair of black and white, plaid-patterned boxer shorts, the girl sucked her lip and plopped down on the bed. Holding both her legs out, she quickly slid on the boxers and jumped back to her feet, stepping on a book in the process. She nearly lost her balance and tipped over, but shot her arms out and grabbed a nearby shelf. Her hand knocked over a framed picture on the shelf, though, and she paused to pick it up and replace it. Within the brass square was a photograph containing a very small, young girl; a large, bearded man with dark, brown hair; and a thin, beautiful woman with red hair and a glowing smile. Nestled in the corner of the frame was a smaller Polaroid, picturing a boy with black hair and gray eyes. Sighing, the girl let herself linger -- gazng at the picture-frame -- before moving to a chest of drawers and withdrawing a bra.
She would've understood, I'm sure: she always did. Mom was always understanding, evening out Dad's short temper. He had always been a rough and tough with me and Mom, but he loved us both – I know it. It’s only been a year and a half since he left: disappeared, nobody has seen him since. I’m not sure if the police investigation is open anymore or not; really, I doubt it. I miss him, and wish he’d come back. He always reminded mf of Dad, with the way he was quiet, gruff, but surprisingly gentle and compassionate. He was a good guy, no matter what everybody else said – they both had been good men.
Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom, the girl moved a toothbrush up and down, left and right inside her mouth, scrubbing her teeth with the white, minty paste. Staring at her own two, teal eyes in reflection, she hummed quietly to herself: a tune with no name. As she brushed, she swayed back and forth every so slightly, shifting weight from one foot to the other in an impatient but casual manner. She was wearing simply a white, cotton bra and the plaid boxers, now, and the scar at the bottom of her throat was visible albeit faint and pale blue. It was a tiny room, with just a porcelain toilet, sink, and shower; clean, somewhat – enough to pass for sanitary, not enough to be sparkling. Her eyes wavered back and forth from her reflection to the far-off, distant nothingness of space, as a line of paste dribbled out her mouth and fell onto the middle of her chest.
When I had first met him, he didn’t seem like my type: beforehand, I had only gone out with sort of rambunctious, loud fellows who drank and partied. It had always satisfied me to just hang on their arm and be shown around the social scene, silent and observant of all the goings-on. He was cute, though, with his pubescent attempt at a goatee, scruffy haircut, and tan complex, so I gave it a shot. That was two years ago, thereabout, and it had been pretty serious ever since the first two or three dates. I was happy, he was happy, but then, as the cliché goes, “everything changed.”
She bathed under the tempered spray of the showerhead, relaxing in the steamy sauna effect that was being created. Scrubbing the shampoo into her hair with both hands, she faced directly toward the stream of water, letting it help her wake up from the clutch of last night’s sleep. The girl was still humming the same nameless tune she had been, before.
The last time we saw each other, it was in that garden behind the grammar school playground. It was a really lovely sight, honestly, with all kinds of flowers and plants grown there by the school’s biology classes. Tall hedges surrounded the entire place, and the only entrance and exit was an archway of twining ivy and flower buds. I recall that when he took me there, the first time, I felt as though it were a fairy tale land. I suppose I was more of a little girl, then, than I am now . . . But, that last time (it was five months ago, I think), he wanted to cheer me up because my Dad had been missing. The whole ordeal tore me up, naturally, and I spontaneously cried around him, all the damn time – shameful, now that I think about it. Should’ve been stronger, should just move on, let go and all that motivational, self-help crap. We made love, there, and for a moment, I felt like I had escaped from reality and been freed; truly freed, from the chains and cruelties of the world. A temporary bliss, it all was, in the end. I suppose I’d go back, do it again, but I don’t want to go – don’t need to go.
Removing a shirt from the closet in her bedroom, the girl took out a different black t-shirt, with a series of five, thin, white and grey stripes along the front. Tossing it over he head and putting her arms into the shirt, she wriggled it on and left the room. Dressed in the shirt and a pair of grey, denim jeans, she made her way through a cluttered living-room, then down a flight of stairs. She knelt down and picked up a pair of ratty, off-white sneakers; leaning against the wall, she forced them on, one socked foot at a time. Before opening the door and walking outside, she tied her shoes and let out a deep sigh.
“Another day closer to death . . .”
" . . . That was the latest sing--," the radio clicked on just long enough for a pale, white hand to dart out and strike the alarm button, coming out from under the covers of the bed like a snake after its prey. The mass underneath the grey blankets waffled about, shifting and turning. Visible at the head of the bed was a tangle of hair, the auburn-tinted sign of life in the cataclysmic scene of this bedroom.
Nobody is going to be asking about me, there; nobody is going to know I'm missing. Because, as far as they're concerned, I'm not missing, I didn't belong -- not in their precious family. Sure, they could point and tut about me, but they'd never admit to anything wrong with him. He was an angel, I was a devil: that's the way they saw it. I'm sure they blame everything on me, too: all the drug business. Jesus Christ, fuck them all.
Clad in a black t-shirt that loosely clung to her body, a girl of somewhere in her late teens sat in the bed, her waist wrapped in sheets around. A picture that was almost like a little girl --lost in a sea of fabric -- waiting for rescue. Her eyes peered blearily into the light of day that was coming in through the one window in the room, while reddish-brown strands of hair fell over her face, into her mouth. Distastefully smacking her lips, she slowly lifted a hand and pulled the hair out of her mouth, spitting and coughing.
What difference does it make? Even if I were there, what difference . . . ? He's dead, and gone; funerals aren't for the dead, they're for the mourners. A morbid march to the graveyard in the overcast midday sky, little black figures against the foggy backdrop like soldiers on a bleak battlefield . . . They carry the coffin like a lost comrade, bearing it upon their shoulders like it's a favour to the corpse for them to be carrying it. In the end, they barely knew him, they barely cared for him -- it's a sham, fraudulence. They'll pause before the tombstone and recite their prayers to a deaf heaven, moving their lips in synchronised motion and hugging themselves in the cold air. Hah, what meaninglessness . . .
Standing in the middle of the mess of a room, the girl rubbed her eyes and then stretched her arms out, yawning. Blinking her eyes multiple times, she scratched her thigh and looked around at the floor, in search of something with her newly-awakened eyes. She had a moderately attractive figure, with an amount of fat not in obese excess clinging to her abdomen and hips; at somewhere near halfway between five and six feet, she was hardly short nor tall. One of the only notable features about her was the scar running along her left inner-thigh, tracing from above her knee to end at her panty-line. She shivered faintly -- cold, wearing merely the shirt -- moving around and kicking at the clutter on the floor.
It's not fair, really: I was always nice to them. I put on a good face, when I did see them, at the grocery store or in the street. They ignored me, still, even as a smiled and waved and bid them a good morning, evening, night or whenever it happened to be. Too good to associate with the riff-raff, huh? Heaven forbid you tarnish your pristine status in such a foul manner, indeed! . . . I guess I shouldn't say they all ignored me, there was that one little kid (his cousin). Nice boy, he didn't belong in that family. I remember that one time I saw him walking down the street with who was probably his mother: I called out, "Hello," and he started to try and walk over and say something. His mom just tugged on his arm and shot me this regretful, apologetic look; then, they kept walking.
Leaning down and yanking up a pair of black and white, plaid-patterned boxer shorts, the girl sucked her lip and plopped down on the bed. Holding both her legs out, she quickly slid on the boxers and jumped back to her feet, stepping on a book in the process. She nearly lost her balance and tipped over, but shot her arms out and grabbed a nearby shelf. Her hand knocked over a framed picture on the shelf, though, and she paused to pick it up and replace it. Within the brass square was a photograph containing a very small, young girl; a large, bearded man with dark, brown hair; and a thin, beautiful woman with red hair and a glowing smile. Nestled in the corner of the frame was a smaller Polaroid, picturing a boy with black hair and gray eyes. Sighing, the girl let herself linger -- gazng at the picture-frame -- before moving to a chest of drawers and withdrawing a bra.
She would've understood, I'm sure: she always did. Mom was always understanding, evening out Dad's short temper. He had always been a rough and tough with me and Mom, but he loved us both – I know it. It’s only been a year and a half since he left: disappeared, nobody has seen him since. I’m not sure if the police investigation is open anymore or not; really, I doubt it. I miss him, and wish he’d come back. He always reminded mf of Dad, with the way he was quiet, gruff, but surprisingly gentle and compassionate. He was a good guy, no matter what everybody else said – they both had been good men.
Standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom, the girl moved a toothbrush up and down, left and right inside her mouth, scrubbing her teeth with the white, minty paste. Staring at her own two, teal eyes in reflection, she hummed quietly to herself: a tune with no name. As she brushed, she swayed back and forth every so slightly, shifting weight from one foot to the other in an impatient but casual manner. She was wearing simply a white, cotton bra and the plaid boxers, now, and the scar at the bottom of her throat was visible albeit faint and pale blue. It was a tiny room, with just a porcelain toilet, sink, and shower; clean, somewhat – enough to pass for sanitary, not enough to be sparkling. Her eyes wavered back and forth from her reflection to the far-off, distant nothingness of space, as a line of paste dribbled out her mouth and fell onto the middle of her chest.
When I had first met him, he didn’t seem like my type: beforehand, I had only gone out with sort of rambunctious, loud fellows who drank and partied. It had always satisfied me to just hang on their arm and be shown around the social scene, silent and observant of all the goings-on. He was cute, though, with his pubescent attempt at a goatee, scruffy haircut, and tan complex, so I gave it a shot. That was two years ago, thereabout, and it had been pretty serious ever since the first two or three dates. I was happy, he was happy, but then, as the cliché goes, “everything changed.”
She bathed under the tempered spray of the showerhead, relaxing in the steamy sauna effect that was being created. Scrubbing the shampoo into her hair with both hands, she faced directly toward the stream of water, letting it help her wake up from the clutch of last night’s sleep. The girl was still humming the same nameless tune she had been, before.
The last time we saw each other, it was in that garden behind the grammar school playground. It was a really lovely sight, honestly, with all kinds of flowers and plants grown there by the school’s biology classes. Tall hedges surrounded the entire place, and the only entrance and exit was an archway of twining ivy and flower buds. I recall that when he took me there, the first time, I felt as though it were a fairy tale land. I suppose I was more of a little girl, then, than I am now . . . But, that last time (it was five months ago, I think), he wanted to cheer me up because my Dad had been missing. The whole ordeal tore me up, naturally, and I spontaneously cried around him, all the damn time – shameful, now that I think about it. Should’ve been stronger, should just move on, let go and all that motivational, self-help crap. We made love, there, and for a moment, I felt like I had escaped from reality and been freed; truly freed, from the chains and cruelties of the world. A temporary bliss, it all was, in the end. I suppose I’d go back, do it again, but I don’t want to go – don’t need to go.
Removing a shirt from the closet in her bedroom, the girl took out a different black t-shirt, with a series of five, thin, white and grey stripes along the front. Tossing it over he head and putting her arms into the shirt, she wriggled it on and left the room. Dressed in the shirt and a pair of grey, denim jeans, she made her way through a cluttered living-room, then down a flight of stairs. She knelt down and picked up a pair of ratty, off-white sneakers; leaning against the wall, she forced them on, one socked foot at a time. Before opening the door and walking outside, she tied her shoes and let out a deep sigh.
“Another day closer to death . . .”
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
1:53 PM
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