EliseLawrence
We're almost there, they said. But they said that yesterday and the day before that. I can almost see it, smell all the exotic spices and hear the jingling of bells that Gramma told us about in her stories, huddled around the campfire at night on this seemingly endless journey. "East," she would say, as though the word tasted sweet on her tongue. "We're going East."
"It's amazing," I whispered as we followed the guide through the dripping hallways, the test tubes shooting off into the rooftop like brightly-coloured spaceships.
"And here, ladies and gentlemen, the cinema room."
The seats unfolded before us like an ocean wave, breaking just before the wall in all directions. All the walls and roof were one enormous screen.
"I can't believe you!" she screamed as she tossed things at me - my black socks with red stripes on them, the tie I wore for our anniversary. Cleaning out the closet.
"I'm done. This is too much Get out."
Something hit me hard in the forehead as I stood and watched her, open-mouthed. Her wedding ring.
"Ouch!"
I put my fingers to my head - they came away smeared with blood.
It's been a long day. Another long day of inward silence and internal screams. Nothing can be heard, it is as though the whole world has become muted around me. I tie, loop, un-loop the thick rope in my hands - I stole it from the back of Dad's tool shed, while he was out front washing the car. He never lets me in there. He yells and rants. He doesn't care. None of them do.
"Oh, shit!" I shriek as I rush back into the kitchen. Black smoke is pouring from the oven, and I inhale a lungful accidentally as I open it. Coughing and choking, I shove my oven-mitted hand into the chaos and pull out the baking tin. The cake is crumpled beyond repair, looking like a crusty piece of volcanic earth rather than something that could be served to impress the in-laws. And they'll be here in just five minutes.
It swung across her back, like a pendulum, mesmerising. He could picture himself as Tarzan of the Apes, swinging through the jungle on that thick vine of hair, swinging across the perfectly rounded buttocks that swayed seductively in front of him
'This is the grocery store, Tim,' he scolded himself silently, and went back to scrutininsing the cereal boxes to his left.
I stare at the page. It is blank. My guitar strings are still. Urgh. Why can't I write him a song? The floor is covered with crumpled pieces of paper - ideas, drafts, that were discarded in disgust. Nothing I write, no chord progression I play around with, seems to mean what it should. Perhaps nothing, not even a song, can ever give voice to what I feel for him?
"No! Again!
I grumbled to myself as I trudged back up the hill, the snow threatening to slide me back to the bottom. James stood at the top, tapping his foot.
"Really? That was your best effort?"
"I'm trying, ok? I'm a beginner!"
"I know that. I just don't always have such uselessly uncoordinated beginners."
I blushed furiously under my ski mask and pushed off down the hill again, only to land on my backside once more.
It itches. It itches so much. I feel it flake away under my fingernails when I scratch my head - see it, too, white and grey and grainy under my fingernails when I examine them. Mum says it's a common condition, with a fancy name that I can never remember. It basically just means your scalp is dry, and annoying, and itches all the time.
The earth rumbles beneath my feet. They're coming.
The trees shakes, pebbles rattle around my feet like chains. I feel like I'm being held in place, watching them spill over the hilltop like a wave. A deadly wave. If I stay here, it will certainly hold me under until I drown.
Trampled to death. What a way to go.
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