Kaboom!
My life is disappearing in a cloud of blue and gray and little orange tongues. I never thought that my whole existence could be packed into seven bankers boxes. Seven, what a lonely number. Seven ash boxes of cinders in the shell that used to be a compact SUV.
New auburn hair, I can't bring myself to say red. It's in my eyes and mouth and so now the world tastes like hair dye as well as smoke. The chemicals create the most delicious palate.
In that car in one of those boxes is a laptop. Technological genius to devise something that can store so many stories in one sleek piece of plastic. I did some digging, before I set it to sleep for the last time. A time capsule of stale emotion, I should have known better.
Meridith was cold this night. And who's to say that she did not deserve to be cozy? It's not like he wasn't enjoying himself...if he wanted more he had a phone full of names he could try. She knew this, and somehow it made her feel better. Being used was infinitely easier then using people.
Funny. Looking back today those words seemed to have been written about the wrong person entirely. And so I closed the laptop and placed it gently on top of a pile of black and gold trinkets and a high school playbill. It was one easy move to put the lid on the box and the box in the car and walk away. The spark had been trickier, I didn't know how quickly the thing would catch, never having torched any sort of vehicle before. First I had tried tossing matches at a kerosene soaked interior, but they extinguished mid-flight. Bigger, I told myself. think bigger. That's when I remembered my brother. Well, he's not my brother anymore I suppose. He used to tell me that I always overdo things, that sometimes I should just take the simple way out. Looking around at the empty kerosene containers that littered the ground I grinned at what he would have said. Sis, you always have to be dramatic, don't you? Simple is better, just get the job done as efficiently as possible.
My bag beside me, the few essentials I had decided to save. Why did I think I would need hairspray, anyway? And it's perfect, I suppose, that I should use an old white shirt, something that I knew I shouldn't save to begin with. The last drops of cologne would only make it burn faster. Knot it and spray it- a routine usually performed on my own locks pre-shows.
Burn baby, burn.
The Kaboom! was in my mind. In reality it was a poof as the knotted shirt hit the seat and my old life went up in smoke.
Blue eyes open and I see you in the back seat, body struggling to return to consciousness. Your shirt rests beside you, and for the first and last time I see terror. And now I turn and walk away, new red hair swinging in the breeze.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Snap.
"You have no right to make me laugh."
A finer trembling on cold metal. One hand steadying the other-eyes swimming in and out of focus. Tears? Perhaps.
"Baby, stop it, come on hon. Let's just talk, ok?"
A calloused hand reaching forward in an offering- palm up.
"No!" Stay where you are, stay the fuck where you are!"
Eyes squeeze shut for one moment and-
SNAP.
**
Two days ago I spilled something red on something blue. Now I'm trying to scrub it out, I know how mad you'll be when you see it. Nothing I can do about the hole but that reddish brown, that I can lift with persistence. You're in the basement, you just went down for a second, any moment now you'll holler up the stairs and I'll ignore you-as always- until you come up and speak to me like a human being. This annoys you, I know, so I'll scrub this stain away and maybe you'll forgive me.
**
Today those spots on my arms and back faded almost away. It's been nearly a week but the blue turned green and yellow and now is nearly gone. I can just barely see the ghost of your hand, just there, on the left side of my throat. A lasting caress and a reminder of your love. And to show you mine, I've been mending the hole in the blue. It's almost finished now, see?
**
Some people came to the door today. Said they saw your car and wondered why you weren't in work. Neighbors I guess; I told them you were in the basement and expected any minute. They didn't guess they ought to wait, they had a pot roast on. I told them I had a casserole in the oven, that was the delicious smell that filled the foyer. They wrinkled their noses in disagreement. Casserole can't be everyone's dish I suppose.
**
I found a rat today. In the kitchen. A great fat one, and I think I heard it's brother foraging last night through the pantry. It scampered down to the basement when I threw a dishtowel at it- a rat so rounded must be eating well- I'll have to remind you to check the dry goods down there when you come back. The casserole smell hasn't left, it gets more potently delicious every day.
**
The last time you loved me you smiled. You threw me against the wall and when my head banged off the picture of an old fishing man you smiled. I know that loving me that way must bring you joy, so I smiled back through the red dizzy haze. You wrapped a loving hand around my throat then and smiled wider. This must be a fun game for you. Today I threw myself down the stairs to see if I would smile without you. It seems the joke has gone out of the game.
**
They came again today, asking about you. You were fixing the boiler, but you would be up in two shakes of a lambs tail. They smiled, but not your smile. Theirs was full of pity and a little bit of terror. They left then, and I turned back to my pickling.
**
Men in blue came today. They saw my pickling and asked where you were. Their blue reminded me of yours; I told them you were downstairs but that I would show them your blue while they waited. They saw the blue and the gold buttons and then they saw the hole. I tried my best to patch it, but not good enough. They saw it and they were angry and said it would be best if I went with them. I told them I would, but that I wanted to write this note to you to tell you where I had gone. They seemed to pity me, but they let me. I'll leave it here on the table next to a jar of my latest pickling project. This way, no matter what, I'll get to keep you to myself for a long time. Pickled goods last for a long time.
A finer trembling on cold metal. One hand steadying the other-eyes swimming in and out of focus. Tears? Perhaps.
"Baby, stop it, come on hon. Let's just talk, ok?"
A calloused hand reaching forward in an offering- palm up.
"No!" Stay where you are, stay the fuck where you are!"
Eyes squeeze shut for one moment and-
SNAP.
**
Two days ago I spilled something red on something blue. Now I'm trying to scrub it out, I know how mad you'll be when you see it. Nothing I can do about the hole but that reddish brown, that I can lift with persistence. You're in the basement, you just went down for a second, any moment now you'll holler up the stairs and I'll ignore you-as always- until you come up and speak to me like a human being. This annoys you, I know, so I'll scrub this stain away and maybe you'll forgive me.
**
Today those spots on my arms and back faded almost away. It's been nearly a week but the blue turned green and yellow and now is nearly gone. I can just barely see the ghost of your hand, just there, on the left side of my throat. A lasting caress and a reminder of your love. And to show you mine, I've been mending the hole in the blue. It's almost finished now, see?
**
Some people came to the door today. Said they saw your car and wondered why you weren't in work. Neighbors I guess; I told them you were in the basement and expected any minute. They didn't guess they ought to wait, they had a pot roast on. I told them I had a casserole in the oven, that was the delicious smell that filled the foyer. They wrinkled their noses in disagreement. Casserole can't be everyone's dish I suppose.
**
I found a rat today. In the kitchen. A great fat one, and I think I heard it's brother foraging last night through the pantry. It scampered down to the basement when I threw a dishtowel at it- a rat so rounded must be eating well- I'll have to remind you to check the dry goods down there when you come back. The casserole smell hasn't left, it gets more potently delicious every day.
**
The last time you loved me you smiled. You threw me against the wall and when my head banged off the picture of an old fishing man you smiled. I know that loving me that way must bring you joy, so I smiled back through the red dizzy haze. You wrapped a loving hand around my throat then and smiled wider. This must be a fun game for you. Today I threw myself down the stairs to see if I would smile without you. It seems the joke has gone out of the game.
**
They came again today, asking about you. You were fixing the boiler, but you would be up in two shakes of a lambs tail. They smiled, but not your smile. Theirs was full of pity and a little bit of terror. They left then, and I turned back to my pickling.
**
Men in blue came today. They saw my pickling and asked where you were. Their blue reminded me of yours; I told them you were downstairs but that I would show them your blue while they waited. They saw the blue and the gold buttons and then they saw the hole. I tried my best to patch it, but not good enough. They saw it and they were angry and said it would be best if I went with them. I told them I would, but that I wanted to write this note to you to tell you where I had gone. They seemed to pity me, but they let me. I'll leave it here on the table next to a jar of my latest pickling project. This way, no matter what, I'll get to keep you to myself for a long time. Pickled goods last for a long time.
The Summer
Summer time and the livin' ain't easy.
Mindless work and no one to keep me even the slightest bit lukewarm at night.
Late sometimes I'll read what passes for our early correspondence. Filled with anger, flirtation, and passion just like it should be-never mind that in this age of technology it's an Instantaneous Message and not a well thought out letter.
Then I'll cry cry cry myself to sleep (things happen in threes right now, don't ask me why they just do.) All of it makes me shiver still, the conversations and the early fights. The things I told you about him...the things I felt when I wrote of my despair and broken heart. Wish sometimes I never told you those things, because then I wouldn't have to read them now. And then I cry some more, thinking of wasted time and thought and emotion when you were right there, right there, right there.
Summer smells like stale tears on a pillow case and the last bit of cologne that clings to fabric.
This is supposed to be tragic and perfect, two lovers ripped apart by cruel fate and all of that. But, sometimes, I wonder if it's really you that I miss. That's when I'll begin dangerous contemplation, thinking and comparing and thinking again. Those early conversations we had seemed so fun and giddy and passionate. Now it's silence after long silence, until the whole world seems muted and I want to scream just to know that I still can. And that's when I go back and read other conversations with other people, and then the shaking starts and the tears and the pillow is my only anchor to reality. Thinking and crying and thinking again.
It's not fair. I know. I'm not fair. I'm selfish and greedy and jealous and unreasonable and you don't deserve any of it. I told you to run once, to leave while you still could. You wouldn't. You, like any honorable perfect gentleman, wouldn't let me go that easy.
You deserve better. But hey, I warned you.
Summer.
Mindless work and no one to keep me even the slightest bit lukewarm at night.
Late sometimes I'll read what passes for our early correspondence. Filled with anger, flirtation, and passion just like it should be-never mind that in this age of technology it's an Instantaneous Message and not a well thought out letter.
Then I'll cry cry cry myself to sleep (things happen in threes right now, don't ask me why they just do.) All of it makes me shiver still, the conversations and the early fights. The things I told you about him...the things I felt when I wrote of my despair and broken heart. Wish sometimes I never told you those things, because then I wouldn't have to read them now. And then I cry some more, thinking of wasted time and thought and emotion when you were right there, right there, right there.
Summer smells like stale tears on a pillow case and the last bit of cologne that clings to fabric.
This is supposed to be tragic and perfect, two lovers ripped apart by cruel fate and all of that. But, sometimes, I wonder if it's really you that I miss. That's when I'll begin dangerous contemplation, thinking and comparing and thinking again. Those early conversations we had seemed so fun and giddy and passionate. Now it's silence after long silence, until the whole world seems muted and I want to scream just to know that I still can. And that's when I go back and read other conversations with other people, and then the shaking starts and the tears and the pillow is my only anchor to reality. Thinking and crying and thinking again.
It's not fair. I know. I'm not fair. I'm selfish and greedy and jealous and unreasonable and you don't deserve any of it. I told you to run once, to leave while you still could. You wouldn't. You, like any honorable perfect gentleman, wouldn't let me go that easy.
You deserve better. But hey, I warned you.
Summer.
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