fluidfyre
I just didn't care anymore.
I could hear him pleading and crying as I grabbed my keys and jacket, slinging my bag over my shoulder as I went out the front door. The screen door blew open in the wind behind me, and he was there by it.
I didn't want to see the spittle on his lips or the red in his eyes.
I couldn't forgive him this time. I couldn't care, because I needed to look after me for a change.
The dame stood there in a red dress, thighs up ta heaven, and all I could think about was the gun I knew she had nestled between her breasts. She was the picture of intrigue, had a smile that could put down puppies, and eyes that left your heart somewhere between an ice pick and an orgasm. She was coming to kill me, and she didn't know that my knife would find a place between her ribs first.
He sat beneath a blue, ever blue sky, amidst the scent of cut grass and fresh blossoming trees. Meanwhile, the rest of the world burned for the decisions he had wrought. And had he a mind anymore, he might have cared. But they had played their cards well, and the one man that could stop their invasion was empty inside.
They said it was a measure of a man. Bill's feet hit the pavement, screen door slamming behind them. He couldn't stand to see her face anymore, or hear the children's laughter. He couldn't be the provider, he couldn't be strong. He didn't want to think about their tears or the diapers. The toys or legos on the floor, the dishes in the sink and the sour milk in the fridge.
Emily was crying. The sound faded into the distance as he crossed the lawn.
His feet just needed to move.
"What I want is a -real- woman," he said, and sat back to drink his coke.
"Your first mistake was thinking that your opinion matters at all, to me, or to any women."
"And the second," he asked and smirked.
She clenched her fingers into a fist as she stood up, and spoke as she swung. "Opening your fucking mouth."
The sound of the rain was magnified by the plastic cover that closed the air conditioner. It was still on from the winter, trying vainly to stop the north wind. But beneath the rain, were the sounds of her soft sobbing through the bathroom door. There were no words left, none to be found, and he could only sit by the window and look at the dismal day that somehow seemed to know.
Every morning was the same as the last, at least since her mother's mind had seeped into the greying strands of her hair. When she was little, the broom had come out in the mornings too, to sweep the cobwebs from the cabin, and brush away mayflies that clouded on the windows. But now she swept nothing, and the straw dragged, dry and broken.
The glass tinked under Terry's finger. The compass had simple stopped working, much like the watch on his wrist. As much as time had no meaning in this place, so had magnetism and direction merely ceased to be.
It was then he realized his heard no longer beat.
The sausage hit the pan and sizzled loudly, a hush of steam rising as they mixed with the onions. Dave didn't look up from where he sat as Mark stirred the fried bits together. The heady scent of the onions browning rose in the air.
"Just keep in mind that I'm... open to the suggestion," she said and looked at him with bedroom eyes.
James fumbled a moment, trying to formulate a word before he cleared his throat and said, "Uh yeah. Yes, of course. I - I will keep... that in mind."
She patted his cheek before slipping out on stage.
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