SentientExistence
They tell him it's traditional. You take a wife and you marry her and you have children. He says to hell with tradition, he's got a car that he bought from the money at the mechanic's place, he's got cash for gas and food and a bundle of his clothing on the backseat. They tell him it's his obligation, it's tradition. He drives off to the city and never once looks back.
She's gorgeous. His head snaps around as soon as she walks into his Geometry class, and all he knows is that he wants her hand in his and her lips on his and well-
He stares. Can't help it. Every day. His friends tease him about it, but he doesn't mind. He'll show them one day, when he shows up with her on his arm. So he asks her out to prom, with a dozen roses and his heart on his face clear as day and on bended knee, and she laughs, kicks the flowers out of his hand, turns and kisses the star basketball player and something breaks inside.
He's caged, he's got nowhere to run and in front of him is the Devil. His father smiles down at him and for a second the boy spits. The wad of saliva and phlegm lands on his father's shoe. The man doesn't even flinch.
"Worthless," he hisses, the sharp smell of alcohol on his breath. "Waste of money. Shoulda killed ya when you came out." Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. "Maybe I'll make good on that promise tonight."
Her outfit is always perfect. Sleek and impeccable, mixing and matching prints to highlight her strong shoulders, to lengthen her short legs. Kaitlin can feel like a model even when she struts down the hallways of her underfunded and crowded school, low heels tip-tapping on the tile floors and ponytail swinging just so. She has the perfect look for every occasion, and she revels in it.
That silly thief. Amilee smiles. She won't get far. Her fist is pulled back, tight and coiled like a spring. Ready to punch, only she isn't going to. A thief, stealing her man. She'll show her what stealing really is, she'll take back what was hers all along. With a smile and nary a thought, Amilee lets two small while capsules fall into the open bottle of drinking water on the desk.
His smile is gorgeous. I want to take that smile and have him put it against my cheek, my throat, my jaw. His hands dance on my bruises like a spider, his nails dig in hard and don't let go.
His smile is gorgeous but his hands and eyes are cold, so cold. The bruises on my thighs and face tell me I'm in love with a madman.
The ramp is huge. Insurmountable. There's no way his arms can get him up that, no way she can make it inside. She has to.
"It's alright. You can do it." She says to herself. She moves forward, strains herself. And then, with a final bump, she's there, and looking into the faces of her classmates for the first time since the accident.
The champagne was fizzy and burned the back of her throat. That's what she remembers from that night, that the lights were dim and the sky was dark and the champagne tasted like a million bucks.
Not that he held her down while she pleaded and screamed, not that he covered her mouth with a sweaty hand, not that he left her crying and violated with mascara stained on her cheeks.
The old man was like a fortress. Icy cold, impenetrable. Nothing went out, nothing came in. Not his thoughts, not his words- he kept it inside of him, safe, where no one could peek in. His face was cragged stone, his hands were the drawbridge- strong and lined with the scars of a thousand failed invasions, testimony to their failure.
But every fortress has a back entrance. And this old man had a dog.
It's beautiful; arcing through the sky like a river of fire and trailing banners of flame behind it. What's more beautiful is the girl next to him; and how her hair sways in the sultry night breeze. He can forget, up here on Rook's Hill; forget that he lost his leg and his brother in the crash. Pretend he's just another teenage guy stargazing with his girlfriend.
But then the comet disappears, and she hops up with starlight reflected in her eyes, and he's left on the ground scrambling for a foot that isn't there.
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writing since 2017 · 19 entries · 18 days shown up
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