Thursday, December 10, 2009

lyn(she) -new short story

it was the first time he ever noticed the carpet in her bedroom.
fluffy, not at all what it felt like under foot. although one could
not be counted on to notice the fucking carpet when one was
holding on for dear life.

she was a beer of a woman, not fat, but full and long
the kind of woman you had to hold onto. she was taking
longer than usual, she always took long, but he was starting
to resent her prolonging the getting off. shit - it wasn't like
they both didn't need it tonight. they did, him more than she
that kind of thinking was the reason they were failing.
Lyn said he was self-involved. it sounded foreign to him.
like someone else's words. his words really, it was something
he would of said. she had never talked like that, Lyn was more
ethereal than that. more Moonwalker than Shrink.
its what kept them together for six years - he was clinical
and she thought he could save her. it didn't take long for them
to realize that both were liars. he was a fool, and she was cruel
not anywhere close to the people that had fallen in love.

"babe? come on, what's the hold up?"
no answer.
"Lyn? what are you doing in there sweets?"
no answer.
"if you don't come out, I'M COMING IN."

he put his ear to the door, resisted the urge to try the handle.
his knees felt weak. it was strange, he had no idea why he was scared,
was he even?

he heard the water running, it sounded of song. like a sonata of his demise.
too dramatic, it had only been a few minutes, he told himself.
"LAY DOWN" he almost said aloud.
"LAY THE FUCK DOWN." this time he said it aloud.

fuck, he didn't even want to make love anymore, he just wanted
to stop waiting. he was always waiting, all his life he waited.

the spittle was caked along his cheek, seconds passed before he was awake
enough to realize he'd fallen asleep, and she never had come out of the bathroom.
he scrambled up, and opened the bathroom door.
there she was- eyes open, face blue.
he caught himself from falling down.
he looked again,


he knew she would not answer.
so he kneeled down next to her head, blood everywhere.
he sat in it, cradle her head, trying to wipe the color
he went to scream. no sound.
he felt sick, but choked it back into the base of his throat.
the blood was starting to congeal, nothing made sense.
he looked at his hands, there was no way he had killed her.
she was alive, had she killed herself.
she was alive, had she killed herself?
he looked at her body, and tried to solve her death with tiny hands.


he pulled himself up - but this time he couldn't keep the sick
spewed all over his lover's corpse.
they will think he did it. who else could it be?
he was the only one here.
he was it
HE tore off the bloody clothes, and ran downstairs,
checked the doors.
checked the windows.
shut, locked.

then again.

exhausted, he laid on the kitchen floor
he fingered the laminate tiles, tracing the night when she was alive.
he knew he hadn't killed her, but he had called her Bitch.

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