StarsInPerdition
it wasn't for his sake that i threw the rosary into the pit with the rest of him. he didn't believe in god no more. hadn't in six years after soaking up all the sin he could, the fucking sot.
no, i threw my rosary in because i figured my prayin' hadn't done a thing to stop it.
we leave them open after the funeral.
she would have wanted her room well-lit. she would've wanted sunshine to drive out the shadows clinging to our eyes every time we stop in front of her room, her toys still scattered in an arc around where her body had lain the moment her heart stopped. between the hospital, the arrangements, and the funeral itself, we haven't cleaned it.
still life of mindy, we call it, hoping the sun brings back some of her warmth to a place that doesn't know how to cope without it.
he watches her back smooth out as she walks away, shoulders relaxed, unclenched fists at her side after she handed his ass to him.
it's yet another point in her favor, and at the end of the day he supposes this'll never change. this fight between them will go on until one of them just gives in and says what they really want out of each other.
he knows this, knows the words are just ready to come out, but, the only thought he has is:
he'll get her next time.
cas, don't wake me tomorrow.
//rector five has inquiries scheduled. would you like to cancel?
just don't wake me.
//rector five has inquiries scheduled. would you like to cancel?
aren't you programmed to listen to me?
//rector five has inquiries scheduled. would you like to cancel?
he serves them a sticky glop of everything essential, broken down. half a chunk of eyeball lolls beside a portion of small intestine on their plates.
"fresh corpse," the waiter announces with all the glamour a michelin 3-star restaurant.
as he walks away, the lady snaps her fingers and barks him back, "what is this place?
wolfgang puck's?" before he stammers a response, she points a decorated finger at her plate. "tell your chef to think twice before skimping the toenail shavings."
as he collects the plate back into the kitchen, she rolls her eyes.
"food service these days."
there's a spot of salt and burger grease shining at the corner of her lip that i can't help but focus on as she laughs, her glass raised in the air and spilling beer all over the varnished counter.
more nights like this, i think as i tell her another fry joke.
the man from earth says we used to reach for the sky but now that it's just outside the window, nobody bothers to lift an arm. ask clover to seal your suit, open a port, and connect you with a lifeline and you can safely float outside and catch as many stars as you like.
with spirit on his breath and illegal cig-e vapors wafting through his cabin, he tells us pro-gen born on craft 42, what it was like living down below in a world that was once sustainable, in a time when the thought of stars once set fires, in an age when holding just one made you a god.
but the man from earth is just that. a man.
no stars to remember for that.
two glass bottles toppled over on the counter, spilling onto the carpet flooring. it wouldn't have been weird to any other eye. the lad moaning in the other room should have been enough for me to back out of the apartment to let that party happen but i couldn't because of the little i knew about jen, i knew she didn't touch soda.
two glass bottles on the counter, spilling over cracks.
who the fuck was in our apartment?
I spent my days in paranoia, walking around with my eyes over my shoulder every day.
I spent my nights in nightmares, dreaming about the forthcoming acts of violence bound to come my way the next time you laid your eyes on me.
I spent my weeks in bandages, coming up with excuses whenever my parents wondered how many times a person could fall or run into things.
I spent my months in casts, wondering if the doctors would accept my lies as truths and my truths as the only thing they needed to hear.
I spent my years in tears, wishing for someone or something to take me or you away.
I spent my life as your victim, and you spent yours as my tormentor.
They can't tell what he's doing it for.
The money. The fame. The love.
The question of Which one does he value the most? lingering all on their minds, when the truth is: none of the options.
He does it for life.
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