Spinose (comments appreciated)

whitetrash

This is all the one story really, its a bit simplistic at times but I'd like to know what people think...


digression and distraction

Holding the shotgun so close to her head probably isn’t necessary, but as anyone who’s played more than three videogames knows, the effectiveness of that particular weapon decreases with distance. And so, therefore, does the gap between a funeral and corrective surgery.

“Surgery,” I say aloud, “now there’s an idea.”

She says nothing. She always pretends not to hear me when she dislikes what I have to say. She knows I hate it of course, but her insistence on continuing with old habits in spite of each other’s intimate knowledge of… each other seemed, to me at least, to make our current situation inevitable. I’m sure she would agree if our positions were reversed. It’d simply been a matter of who would make the first move. Or the last move, you might say.

“But I digress.”

Not a flicker; won’t even give me a blink. You have to admire her stubbornness though, partly why I fell for her of course. And once that thought enters my mind, inevitable as holding a shotgun to her head was, equally inescapable is my falling for her all over again. Falling again for her stubbornness, for her illicit eyes, her corrupting soul; and, it seems, falling again for distraction. Just as I was laying my gun on the floor, the audible click of a pistol’s safety catch fills our quiet ware-home and snaps me out of my reverie.

“I would have thought you’d wait until I coughed. Or something.”

She smiles, clearly annoyed, and I refocus my attention on the object of my affections – rather than on the affections themselves. She’d almost had me, but on the plus side: if she was making mistakes, then obviously I was getting to her. As she had gotten to me. In any case, the situation had now altered considerably; what with her having a small automatic pistol aimed at my head.

“I’m not sure whose face I’ll miss the most,” I say.

She smiles - sweetly this time. If she was agreeing with me, or even paying full attention, she must be getting bored. It seemed to go like this every time and yet I never see it coming. I guess one of us has to get us out of this situation. I place my shotgun on the floor and stand up - smiling.

“Wanna go see a movie?” I ask, still smiling.

She raises her pistol slightly and squeezes the trigger. I close my eyes, but the series of loud clicks tells me it’s empty. I wish I could remember why we’d been arguing. I open my eyes; she is smiling happily. She nods, and goes to get ready. We’ve been together a long time, but I guess she still does love me after all.




auto neurotica

I replace the handset, stand up and go to the window. I stare at the people and the cars that go by, and at the police station across the road. I stare at the trees between here and there. I stare at the spaces between the trees. I stare out and resist the urge to punch the wardrobe beside me. Why? Why resist? Why do I stop myself from punching the wardrobe? It would hurt, sure, but that didn’t bother me. No permanent damage would be done to either my hand or the furniture. Am I angry about the phone call? No, it was just a friend I was going to meet up with later, no reason to be angry. Do I dislike the wardrobe? Has it offended me in some way? No, it’s as inoffensive as a wardrobe can be. Perhaps that’s the problem then; the wardrobe’s inoffensiveness offends me – its innocuousness. It just stands there, performing a function not of its own choosing, same as any other wardrobe. I would have less of a problem with it, I think, if it stood out in some way; if it were especially ugly or beautiful, I could live with it. But it’s not ugly, just cheap, and certainly not beautiful. It’s a perfectly ordinary piece of furniture, average only because of its refusal to change itself. I stare out the window and punch the wardrobe without looking. The wardrobe, of course, feels no pain whatsoever. I, of course, do. But this was my intent. I get ready to go out, rubbing my bruising hand.

Bitch.




the evening fails

Every morning is the same for those that live at night. The evening fails to express what dawn evokes so easily. The end of criminal frolic, but the knowledge that those only awakening do not yet know what awaits them.

Cars burned. Corpses born.

Rewind a few hours and we see The Hero about his business, running into The Lover in the centre of town - each on their individual criminal spree. The blood on his t-shirt brings out the blue in his eyes. The flashing yellow lights of alarm highlight her corrupting soul.

Broken bottles. Defiled fountains.

They prowl around each other like animals, afraid to touch, afraid that, by touching, they might destroy themselves and each other. They are probably right; every person that touches you destroys who you were before. They destroy who they themselves were.

Panicked firemen. Lazy cops.

A gas station blows, shooting fire into the sky and engulfing nearby houses. The square lights up and everything turns soft focus - this is how lovers should meet. They convene and crime is forgotten, albeit temporarily. They don’t speak, for even opening their mouths in such a toxic billow would cause them harm. They leave together to frolic elsewhere.

And we wish them well.




fast track

Old age creeps up, they say. We made it run. Crime is a game for youth, and we are no longer young. Once on the fast track, we are now in a slow burn. Mixing metaphors and grandchildren’s names alike. Eye colour fading to match the white pages of a pacifist’s dictionary. What was gibberish in jest, now a knee-jerk response to questioning. Who needs an alibi when you could have a stroke?

He and I were in the right business. Dying is expensive. It almost costs more than living. Bars and bank vaults turned into parks and playgroups a long time ago. A girl could look back and feel regret, or not. I would like to think not. I should hope not.

Look back anyway, regret or not. See everything you think has happened. See yourself in love back then. Look around and see yourself in love now. Same guy and everything. You’d never have thought it back then. Being a wife; a mother; a grandmother, for god’s sake. Never thought you’d even live this long. Giving your youth to one man was so easy you didn’t even notice. He’s smiling at me.

“I’m not sure whose face I miss the most,” I say.

We both laugh.