~There is something about tragedy that makes us unable to tear our eyes away. Perhaps it is that the pain makes us feel alive. Or perhaps others’ loss reminds us of who we might have been.~
“I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? IF YOU HAD GIVEN ME HALF AS MUCH AS I HAVE POURED INTO THIS RELATIONSHIP NONE OF THIS EVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED.”
Tick, tick, tick. The sound of the clock went unnoticed most of the time. It was a quiet clock, perpetually a little slow and rather ancient as things went. It hung from a wall with nice, floral wallpaper just imperceptibly yellowing and curling at the edges. The pale moonlight filtering in from the little ventilation window set against one wall was the only source of light in the room, currently, though a larger fixture with the wooden fan blades hung from the ceiling. The wooden fan would have been nice to look at, if one side of each blade hadn’t been caked in dust, and the dark shade of the wood had matched with the cheaper, lighter material of the cabinets.
“If you thought, for a second that what we had was a relationship, you’re- you’re-“
Drip, drip, drip. The sound of the faucet was as it ever was, cliche, annoying, surprisingly mundane in the face of all the rest of the world had to offer. The small room that housed it was equally mundane, if perhaps a little rundown. The metal of the sink was tarnished and the sad linoleum countertops spoke of an older era. The tiles that covered the floor were white, which only made the dirty spots and little stains more noticeable, and a couple of them were chipped here and there. A small hand pressed against the cold white tiles, not small enough to be a baby’s, not big enough to be an adult’s. The delicate white fingers splayed against the ground, surveyed by a pair of empty brown eyes visible in the half-darkness of the shadows.
“I’M WHAT? HUHH? HUHH? YOU GOT SOMETHING TO SAY, FAG? Oh that’s right. I almost FORGOT. You’re just a filthy fag who likes taking it up the ass. You’re right. I was the only one who thought what we had was a relationship, cause fags can’t HANDLE women.”
Hmmmm, hmmmmm. The quiet humming of the old white refrigerator was soothing, somehow. An ever-familiar backdrop that one might fall asleep to. The girl sitting in the kitchen certainly seemed to think so, as she was leaned up against the large appliance, tilting her head back with a quiet sigh. There was a small flutter of sound as a long, brown curl swept past its owner’s thin shoulder. The brown eyes abandoned their post from the fingers of her right hand, as the fingers themselves seemed to relax against the ground. Her knees were drawn up, but didn’t bother to make the effort to reach her chest in the classic self-comforting gesture. It was as though they themselves had given up the pointless endeavor.
“You really think a whore like you gets to say something like that to me when you’re the one taking it up the ass for a dime? What a joke.”
Haaaaaa… Another quiet breath left the adolescent, who could not have been older than maybe twelve. It didn’t appear to be related to the conversation in the other room. There was, in fact, no indication that she was listening at all. It was more like the kind of sigh you’d make as you were making yourself comfortable in bed. There was no way she could have been comfortable, though. Her breath had formed a small cloud visible for just a half second in the dim light, yet she was only wearing a T shirt and loose exercise shorts. Her left arm hung off one leg and her thin lips were parted slightly.
A couple more shouted words, a resounding crack of palm hitting cheek, a slammed door, muttered curses, pounding footsteps. The girl’s index finger tapped against the floor soundlessly as the tiniest of smiles seemed to curl the corners of her mouth upwards. For a while nothing happened, but then another door slammed shut and the sound of the only other resident of the home receded slightly. More angry words, slamming and banging, the sounds were there, but they were muffled by the walls of the establishment. The cozy, wallpapered walls that said nothing at all about the people living in them. The sound of running water, yelling from the apartment next to theirs, yelling from the occupant of the shower. The brunette took a nice long breath in through her nose. The action stung her sinuses, but in that crisp, clean way she couldn’t help but kind of enjoy. Tap, tap silently against the floor. Up the index finger went, and then down again against the white tile. Her eyes were closed – peaceful, as if she were asleep, but when at last the muffled thuds and yells from the other room were completely silenced, her eyes fluttered open. And then there was silence again. Silence except, of course, for the tick, tick of the clock, and the drip, drip of the faucet they never could seem to really fix, and the quiet humming of the refrigerator that set pleasant vibrations against her spine. Pressing her lips together, the girl smiled slightly and began to hum in time with the silent tapping of her index finger. It was no particularly recognizable song, nor particularly melodic in any way. It was a humming like the refrigerator.
She sat like that and hummed for a bit, then slowly stood up, in no hurry. She stepped soundlessly across the floor until she reached a special little wooden block sitting on the counter next to the burners. The same fingers that had been splayed against the floor wrapped around a simple black handle, moonlight glinted off the metal surface of a blade as it revealed itself from the block. She held it in her hand comfortably, casually, not even really looking at it. Then she turned around. Her footsteps were silent as ever. It was as though the girl was a ghost. A ghost with a kitchen knife, sweeping through the lonely little flat, leaving its sorrow in its wake, cold as the dead.
(Original date written unknown as it is saved from a site no longer running.)