SuperSpecs
Candles are clustered in groups of three creating a circle around a silver cup and a set of silver bells. She is seated in the center of the circle, another instrument, settled into it's place.
Green, red, brown, yellow...no blue. Where were the blue? An entire bag of M&Ms and no blue?
Katie didn't ask to move to nowhere, USA. She didn't ask to live across the street from the only entertainment in 150 square miles, a rinky dink one screen theater playing old black and white horror movies.
I can't sleep. It's so hot. My bed sheets are soaked through. I get up and take a basket filled with wet sheets and dirty clothes down to the basement. At least it's cool down there. The door creaks and the dirt and stone gives off a musty smell. Footsteps from my neighbors on the first floor sound like they're coming from the coal cellar. I picture zombies and murderers slowly making their way into the barely lit laundry room, but at least it's cool down here.
I can't take my job. The monotony, the drama, the bureaucracy, it's all too much. Without my hobby I wouldn't be able to get through a single day in that office. I scream out my stress and finish my masterpiece. The Artist, that's what the reporters call me and they are right.
This was her breaking point. It was tiny, nothing really, but she was done. She could take the way he chewed and his perpetual lateness. She was okay with his ability to kill a six pack in one sitting, but this was more than anyone should have to handle.
She isn't comfortable with this part of the night. They always come in twos, dark shadows across the walls before they are standing in front of her. Their business suits are stained and ragged, but there skin is clean and they smell like carnations. She hands them a list of names and they point at three or five or eight. She points out the refrigerated doors housing those poor people. She scurries out of the room before she has to see, but the quiet liquid sounds follow her into the waiting room.
The dishes remained in the sink, the wine in it's glass, candles burnt to stubs. It remained. Nobody else did.
First they cut me open with one of those saws, the big ones that cut through bone. Then they pry my ribs open so they can get to my insides. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't feel like anything, but nobody can keep their sanity when someone's weighing their liver and cutting into their stomach.
He's in my head. His voice is a booming roar and mine struggles to be heard. I think one thing, but I'm already doing another. There are no other options. His voice is booming.
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writing since 2013 · 27 entries · 23 days shown up
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