Words, a short story by Fuzzy Birds

Fuzzy Birds

Fuzzy Birds

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I wrote this short story a while ago, after being told by a friend that my writing style was very well structured. I literally made the story up as I went along, but I don't think there are any huge inconsistencies in the continuity. So far, I've received quite a lot of praise for it, some of the most favourable comments coming from an English Literature graduate I know, and I like to think he know's what he's talking about.

Although in my opinion, the first chapter is pretty weak...


Words.
A short story by
Alex Verbeke.

1

So, here I am.

Sitting in front of my TV in the dark, an unnatural pale glow blurring the edges of the shadows around me. I’ve been here for two hours now, my eyes tired and stinging from staring at this harsh white square of static. For two hours, my hands have been clutching the remote, reluctant to change the white, fuzzy snow to something vivid with life and rich with colour. I can’t handle vivid and colourful right now.

I drop the remote and pick up the telephone on the small table next to me, placing the cold receiver to my ear. My hand hovers over the numbers, as lifeless as the dull dialling tone ringing in my ear.

I can hear the neighbours next door. Or more accurately, I can hear their bedsprings, a rusted, rhythmic banging against the wall, punctuated by the occasional yelp. I don’t even remember their names to be honest. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were John and Jane Doe, or something hopelessly all American like that.

I met them about a year ago, when they moved in. They invited me and my wife to their house on a cold November evening, a Saturday I think. I didn’t quite have the guts to refuse their offer, especially when they asked so politely. Being hopelessly anti social, I wasn’t looking forward to the night, but my wifes occasionally sickening optimism managed to shine through and I ended up getting more than a little excited about the idea. My wife however, bailed out at the last moment, because of an upset stomach or something similarly reeking of bull****. How ironic, that the pessimist and the optimist swapped roles. In fact, is that even irony? I can’t tell anymore after that Alanis Morrisette song.

I spent a couple hours shooting the **** with them about the usual kinds of stuff: jobs, families, childhood, life goals, the state of the nation, wife swapping.

Well, I wouldn’t go as far as calling the last one ‘usual kinds of stuff’. In fact, until that particular topic reared it’s ugly head, I was considering the evening a success. Yes, these were pretty nice people, thought I, nice enough in fact, that I’d bet on a pretty good relationship with them, at least as much as is possible between neighbours. Until of course, he started talking about that. I beat a hasty retreat, desperately mumbling something about some work I had to do for tomorrow morning. Since that night, I’ve only ever seen them occasionally on the staircase, giving them a polite smile and a ‘ how you doing?’ before quickly sprinting up or downstairs. I hear them almost every night though. They make the kind of noises you can only imagine coming from a wildlife programme.

But, I digress. Here I am, supposed to be calling up and confessing for the murder of my wife and all I can think about is my neighbours (admittedly passionate) sex lives. It’s an old habit in times of anxiety. The dialling tone still hums its infinite tune in my ear.

I remember once in high school, I must have been 16 or something similar, I was in the principals office for breaking a window in the science block. I remember my old principal vividly. Big guy, built like a storm shelter. A shock of black hair flowed backwards over an enormous skull, in which two small holes had been bored, and grey coals placed in them, burning with an intense, powerful hatred for anyone and everyone, especially long haired upstarts like myself. He wanted a reason to bust me for the whole semester, but I’d kept smart, doing everything I was asked to, trying desperately not to give him some reason. Until I broke that window. It was exactly what he had been looking for, an excuse to kick me out for unruly behaviour.

If I played my cards right, I like to think I could have walked out of there with nothing more than a slapped wrist. My mother always said I could talk the birds out of the trees, and sell the devil his own soul, such the sweet talker I am. But my normally cool demeanour was betraying me, and I found myself overcome with anxiety and worry. Possibly something to do with the ridiculously strong joint I’d been puffing not an hour ago. I was nervous, his eyes were drilling into me, peeling back the layers of my skin, to find my shamefully guilty soul underneath, cowering and whimpering in a dark corner. I knew then, that no matter what I said, no matter how smooth my tongue was, I was not walking out of that room victorious. I knew it, as surely as I knew my name.

It’s that same dreadful finality that overtook me as I stood over my wifes body 3 hours ago, knife in hand, standing in the warm blood that once belonged to the body of the girl I had called my lover. The girl whose virginity I had taken. The girl whose hand I had held in marriage. The girl whose smile was enough to bring me out of any dark mood, no matter how foul.

It hit me like a slap in the face. This was it, there’s no turning back now. She’s dead. You’ve got to face the consequences, you can’t talk your way out of this, you can’t make things better with words and charm.
 
Last edited:
GMaster said:
it started off wierd, but as it progressed, was very very cool. I love you Fuzz. Not literally, in a friendly way.
Click to expand...

I love you too baby. If you wanna read the rest, send me a PM or something.
 
2

Right now, at this precise moment in time, I am 33 years old. My wife is… was…. 29. Actually, it was her birthday today. Maybe she’s 30 now. Let’s see. She died, I killed her, 3 hours ago. That was about 6pm. I can’t remember the time of her birth. What does it matter anyway? I’m just rambling again. She’s dead and I’m responsible and that’s that and this is this. My god, she’s dead.

In fact, thinking about it, I think she was born about 7 in the evening. Didn’t even live to see 30.

I met her when I was 22. It started like all good romances: on a perfectly lazy summer afternoon. I was working the local markets, searching for something to cook that evening. I remember passing the fish stall, the heat and humidity and overall stench of things from the sea turning my stomach. I was most definitely not in a sea food mood.

I was still a student at the time, but while all my friends were busy working evenings at the local ****hole bar or fast food joint, trying desperately to scrounge some cash to simultaneously buy their books and feed their marijuana habits, I was coasting along in a cosy one bedroom apartment not 4 blocks away from the university. My parents were in the oil business you see. They couldn’t have their only child working the tables in some scruffy café to make ends meet. I think it was due to my parents wealth that I had as many friends as I did. Quite often during the week I would see one or two of these friends crashing on my sofa after a particularly heavy drinking session. I suppose, in hindsight, they weren’t exactly what you would call friends. Leeches might be a more accurate description.

My wealth, coupled with my aforementioned charm was enough to ensure that I rarely spent the night alone. I’d never been in anything even remotely resembling a relationship, preferring instead to drift from one able bodied blonde to another, meeting, dancing, drinking, screwing, leaving in the morning. Sometimes I didn’t even know their name. Blondes were my favourite until I met her. I’d spent the previous night with some dizzy little girl, nothing remarkable in the bedroom department, and had left her place early in the morning ( I never took them back to my apartment, didn’t want to come home horny and drunk, arms wrapped around some girl, only to find some simple minded baboon of a student asleep in his own vomit on my leather sofa).

I spent the morning catching up with my work back at home. Despite my rowdy lifestyle, I still had my priorities straight, and worked just as hard, if not harder then everyone else in my year. I was studying psychology as a major. I had notions of sitting in a big comfortable psychiatrists chair, bespectacled and bearded, wearing a white shirt and cheeky pink tie, notepad and biro in hand, surrounded by plaques and commendations, listening to paranoid schizophrenics and poor deluded souls spill their deepest, darkest, most shameful acts to me.

I think you’ve gathered by now that I was something of a swinger. Well, that all kind of sunk away when I met her. Matters of the heart replaced matters of the groin. When I was with her, I never so much as glanced at another woman.

It was the afternoon in the marketplace, as I said earlier. I was standing in front of a stall that sold all kinds of pasta. I was giving serious thought to something Italian, and was considering all the pastas on offer, suffering the glare from the sun and tolerating the stare from the vendor. A scent of cinnamon caught my attention, and I turned my head to the east, and instantly our eyes locked.

The sun was shining directly in her eyes, and the sheer brilliance of that summer light brought out every little detail, every little imperfection and flaw, every swirl and cloud and splash of colour in those deep green eyes. It felt like I was looking in those eyes for an eternity. My legs felt like they were made of lead, and at the same time, jelly. I could barely stand, but I knew I wouldn‘t fall, forever to be stuck in some immovable limbo. My heart started pulling overtime, beating so furiously and with such strength that I honestly thought the thing would leap out of my chest, through my shirt and flop onto the tortellini, spurting blood all over the place, making some kind of humongous, twisted Bolognese dish.

With every effort in my suddenly pathetic body, I managed to tear my eyes away from hers for just long enough to acknowledge the rest of her. Brown hair, as deep and heavy as the old chestnut cabinet in my fathers study, flowed from the top of her perfect head down to her bare shoulders, spilling and crashing together like so many waves on a shore. Full red lips, perfectly bow shaped, with a little upward curve at the corners. She was frozen in mid reach for the last box of strawberries in the stall next to mine.

For one of the only times in my life, my tongue betrayed me. It was imminently clear that I needed to say something, but all I could manage was a feeble ‘Hello’, my voice breaking only slightly at the end, but enough to turn me the darkest shade of crimson imaginable.

Her eyebrows arched expectantly. I needed something else.

Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, a burly colossus of a man was desperately shovelling coal into a dying furnace, sweat pouring from his oil stained face, his hands raw and tender from the searing heat. More, more, more I thought. Apparently satisfied, the flame bursts to life, and is born again, a raging inferno. Whereupon I regained control of my senses, and my tongue.

‘Better be careful with those strawberries’ I said, ‘Take your eyes off them one minute and they’ll have your hand’. She smiled, a warm joyous smile that spread into every corner of my body, flames licking the edges of my heart. As if it wasn’t hot enough, I thought.

‘Thanks for the tip’ she said, in a voice so light, so heavenly, it could have been carried across the breeze by angels. I felt a stirring in my stomach, something that I had never felt before, and offered a sheepish ’You’re welcome’.

I spent most of the day with that girl, walking through the markets, chatting about this and that. It was over the course of that lazy summer afternoon that I realised I was going to marry this girl.

I had Spaghetti Bolognese by the way.
 
marvelman said:
Heeeeeeyy... this isn't free porn!
Click to expand...

Nope, but at least I succeded in getting people to try and read my story.

Succeeded?
Suceded?

Suckseed?

Argh, brain freeze...
 
Last edited:
marvelman said:
Dammit! Foiled again in my never-ending quest!
Click to expand...

Well, you know, you could, like, read it. It's got some sexual references in it, I suppose that could be construed as porn.


Softcore though.
 
haha no it was good, i did read it.

I actually wasn't expecting porn at all, i was just joking around. :shifty: i swear
 
3

She tamed me.

I want to make that clear. My life as a young, partying and carefree bachelor was over. All of a sudden, all those blonde haired, big breasted curvy girls, the type that could get me excited with just a flick of their hair or a lick of their lips, were nothing to me. Pale imitations of that brown haired, green eyed girl with the smile like summer incarnate. I found myself drinking and partying less and less, and even when I did my passion was not as strong as it used to be. I could almost feel it leaving my body, floating downstream in a current that I was helpless to overtake. In a way, I hated her for it. It was my life, and I was perfectly happy with it.

Of course, I loved her. Every molecule in my body burned with an intense longing and passion for her. But still, that little part of me hated her, for taming me like that. I suppose she wasn’t to blame. Not at one point in our blossoming relationship did she say anything to the effect that I had to give up this wild lifestyle of mine. And similarly, I never entertained the idea of giving it up myself. It just kind of happened. It was outside our control.

But nevertheless, a little part of me hated her for that. And over the years, that hatred only grew larger. Of course, comparatively, I loved her a thousand times more that I hated her. But that hatred was growing in me like a malicious cancer. The older I got, the more I longed to return to those hazy summer days of my youth, to drink tequila all night, side by side with my friends, my comrades in arms, then to walk through the deserted streets, feeling the dual warmth of the rising sun, and of the girl in my arms.

But alas, I knew I could never return. Those days had long since past, and I no longer had the spirit. I could have left her, sure, and I could have tried with all my strength and formidable will power to forge that old life anew, but it would never be as I remembered it, merely a mockery of the life I once knew. That man who was once a smooth talker, capable of enticing any girl into his arms, maker of friends and thrower of parties, existed no more. He was replaced by me, a shy, quiet bookish man, with about as much social skills as a grizzly bear on LSD. All that brash, borderline arrogant confidence of mine had faded away, to be replaced by a quieter, almost invisible confidence. So I surrendered myself to the change.

And the years passed. Happy years for the most part. Years filled with love, and bliss.

I took her hand in marriage two weeks before my 25th birthday. Thanks in large part to my parents, the wedding was of such magnitude and flamboyance, that those who attended it never forgot.

It’s getting dark in here, my eyes are hurting.

Somewhere over the course of my reminiscing, I had placed the phone back in the receiver. Guess I changed my mind about the confessing part.
 
4

I just turned on the overhead light.

To my right, I can see her body, lying in the kitchen. With the lights out, it looked like she was asleep. In the light though, I can see quite clearly the grimace on her once beautiful face, and the stiff awkwardness in which she lies. Her white blouse is stained a blackish red around her chest. Flecks of blood litter her face, like freckles. Droplets light upon the white lino flooring, and the cabinet. Her bulging, accusatory eyes stare at me: at me and into me.

I was so encompassed in my own thoughts, that I forgot to wash my hands. Once I turned on the light, I noticed that the television remote and phone were streaked with drying, caked blood. My favourite shirt too. I can’t believe I ruined my favourite shirt.

I can see her watching me in the corner of my eye. Those deep green eyes, full of curiosity and joy, now bloodshot, lifeless and dull. A tear rolls down her bloodstained cheek, and her lips move softly, whispering something inaudible. I turn my head to face her, and strain to hear the words that shouldn’t be escaping from her lips. Her fingers twitch, sharp bony little digits, scratching at the floor, blood caked under the nails. Her voice, once soft and light, carried over the breeze with the spicy scent of cinnamon, now crawls its way into my brain, reeking of something rotten and festering.

‘Why?’ she asks. The word echoes through all the corners of my mind, biting at every part of my soul, sending an icy chill down my spine and a sharp, searing heat into my heart. Those lifeless eyes continue to bore into me.

I think I’m going to turn the light out again.
 
5


We found the apartment a couple of months after our marriage. The rent was cheap, and it was on the other side of town from my parents house, meaning visits would be infrequent at best. Most of the furniture remained, albeit moth eaten and stained with things I could only imagine. Out the window with that junk.

She and I hand picked a leather sofa and recliner, a large, patterned oak table and a bookcase, plus a king sized bed and matching cabinets and wardrobe. Over the first few months we added bits and bobs where our finances would allow it. I’d decided to cut myself off from my parents’ wealth, preferring instead to live off our dual incomes. Which were more than adequate. She was a dentists assistant in a small clinic 10 minutes walk away from the flat. It was an area she’d shown interest in since childhood, and was studying it at the moment we met.

Unfortunately, my dreams of being a psychiatrist never quite took off, but I found a reasonable amount of satisfaction from my position as a departmental head for an average sized insurance firm in downtown. The wage packet was not to be sneered at, and there were more bonuses and perks than I could shake a moderately sized stick at. A couple of times a promotion was thrown my way, but for numerous reasons I declined. Being at the top of the ladder was a little bit too much responsibility for me, and I didn’t want to begin taking my work home with me, interrupting my married life.

I remember our first serious argument. She wanted a child. And I didn’t think we were ready. A woman is of the firm belief that she could raise a child, no matter her (the woman, not the childs) age. Maybe they’re right, but not in this case. My wife was just a little bit too clumsy, too dizzy and carefree to seriously raise a child. I’m not saying I was any better. I just didn’t think we were ready. She disagreed.

The argument was nothing spectacular. I said some things that on hindsight shouldn’t have been said, and I’m ashamed to say I brought her to tears. But she gave as good as she got, and some of what she said, or screamed more accurately, really scarred me. I could have stayed angry at her, and she at me. But to both our credits, we made up and forgave each other. I considered myself lucky. I’d certainly known couples who separated for less.

Well anyway, she got pregnant. She always preferred using the pill as opposed to condoms, enhanced her pleasure she said. To this day, I’m not sure if she purposely skipped the pill, or if it was a genuine mistake. But there was no denying her happiness at the revelation. I remember her walking out of the bathroom, waving one of those pregnancy kits in my face, a smile from ear to ear. For the first time in my life, I looked at that smile and didn’t smile back. After a couple minutes she noticed that what she mistook for shock on my face, was actually anger. And so, we argued again, this time, a hell of a lot worse than the last.

A Hell of a lot.

Long story short, I hit her. And forced her to take an abortion. And things were never quite the same after that, as much as we both tried.

6


I’m thirsty.

But I don’t dare go into the kitchen.

She’s been saying things again. That *****. Some of the things coming from her mouth. She’s closer as well. I’m trying not to look at her, but at the corner of my eye I could see her crawling slowly across the floor, like a dog.

How can she do that? I killed her. She’s dead, I checked her pulse.

I can hear her clothes rustling as she moves. Those eyes won’t let go of me. Still green. But the colour has faded., like a shirt that’s been washed too many times. I killed her. Didn’t I? I plunged the knife into her heart. Plunged it.

And there she is, crawling across the floor, like some pathetic mutt edging his way closer to the dinner table in the vain chance of getting some scraps. The very thought of it. She always did that, after every little argument we had, she always tried to make me the bad guy. Always came back later, and although she wouldn’t say it directly, she was just waiting for an apology, waiting for me to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness.

Well not this time. You asked for that knife. You’ve been ****ing behind my back for far too long you manipulative *****. I love you. I can’t believe you cheated on me. Oh god.

To think I might not see those eyes makes it so hard not to cry. I loved her and I killed her. She’s dead, and now she’s come back to haunt me.

No. It was her fault. What was I supposed to do? Just sit there and take it? She cheated on me, and then expected me to take her back into my arms? She’s at the door frame now, still looking at me. That look in her eyes! She’s trying to make me feel guilty, trying to make this my fault! Well, I’m not going to just sit here and take it. She keeps whispering things, things I can’t hear. In a few minutes she’ll be in this room.

I killed her. Oh god I killed her, she’s dead and I killed her, I took her life.

Wait. This is getting me nowhere.

Got to get a grip now.

And I’ve got to shut that ****ing door.
 
Pandrio said:
For those of you who have skipped over this story of obviously great talent:
READ THIS NOW!!!!
Click to expand...


Holy crap man, I've actually gone red. No kidding, did you have to be so enthusiastic?!?

But um.... yeah. If anyone else wants to read the last 5 chapters, let me know, I'm definitely not gonna spoil these ones on the internet.
 
Fuzzy Birds said:
Holy crap man, I've actually gone red. No kidding, did you have to be so enthusiastic?!?

But um.... yeah. If anyone else wants to read the last 5 chapters, let me know, I'm definitely not gonna spoil these ones on the internet.
Click to expand...
It was so awesome, I couldn't contain myself.
:lol:
So, yeah, it was quite good.
 
7


As I mentioned earlier, my wife worked as a personal assistant to a fairly high profile dentist. I only met the guy twice. The first time was when she just got the job, shortly before the marriage.

He was a big guy, but not in a threatening or even vaguely intimidating way. I mean pathetically big, and clumsy with it. Perhaps ungainly is the right word. A misshapen oddjob of a man. Fat gut hanging over his beltline, framed by skinny arms and a scrawny neck. Legs like tree trunks, albeit tree trunks bent out of shape from the weight of carrying that barrel of a belly for the last 40 years. He didn’t so much walk as waddle, his fat *** swaying with each lumbering step. Eyes like pissholes in the snow, a long straight nose and little ears, a mouth ridden with perfectly fake teeth. All topped off with a layer of sickly white skin and a balding head of greasy brown hair.

And as for his personality, well, a perfect match for that body. Insecurity and self loathing figuring top of the list, followed closely by an incredibly weak will and a penchant for letting people walk all over him with hiking boots. To make matters worse, he had the amazing inability to trip over his own tongue with every sentence he managed to pull out of that awkward mouth of his. So polite and so apologetic, despite the fact that he never had anything to apologise for, because he didn’t have the audacity to actually offend someone.

To sum him all up in one sentence: a pathetic waste of a human body.

I have absolutely no idea why my wife was screwing him behind my back.

The second time I met him was when I found a credit card under his name down the back of our sofa two months ago.

I casually walked into his office, with complete disregard for his secretary and my questioning wife, who was emerging from a local staff door, and threw the card on his table. He looked at me, then the wallet, then the window, me again, and then my wife who was now framed in the doorway, eyes moist and chest heaving.

I didn’t say a word. The pathetic waste of space wasn’t worth it. I turned on my heels, and fixed my wife with a cold gaze. Her eyes were full of an impossible amount of water, I expected to hear a splintering crack and see it all pour out of her shattered eyes in a torrential wave. My expectations were let down, as one single tear broke free and spilled down her now red cheek.

‘I’m sorry’ she whispered.

Turns out she saw something in him that I obviously overlooked. Some endearing quality, an endearing quality which must be so colossal as to make up for all those sad little faults and nervous twitches of his.

I didn’t doubt for one second that she loved him, but I also knew that she still loved me. You could say we were in quite a pickle. I returned home in a daze, and slept for a large portion of the afternoon. But not on the bed. Not on the bed where they’d been. My dreams were taunting and mocking. I still loved her, my heart ached for her. My mind was full of the memories of days past, of the first time I caught her cinnamon scent, to the first time I entered her, to the colour and clarity of her eyes in the summer sun, to lying in her arms on our bed, rain softly falling against the window, a warmth in my loins, and the near inexplicable feeling of complete perfection, of being in the right place. These memories were mixed with nightmare images of she and him naked, his bulbous, sweaty mass rolling on top of her slender, pale frame, their tongues meeting and merging, both of them moaning in the throes of some primal passion. I threw up in the toilet several times.

She returned home late. I guessed she was with him, being comforted. We didn’t say much. As we lay in bed that night, I could hear her slight body shuddering as she quietly sobbed into her pillow.

Life for those next few weeks went normal enough. We worked, came home, ate, slept. We just didn’t say much, especially on my part. The only discussion we entertained took place a couple days after my encounter with him. We talked for a couple hours straight, barely making eye contact. She told me that she had only been with him once, and that was a long time ago, after I hit her. Since then she had remained physically faithful to me, but had oft met with and confided in him, mostly with matters that she felt unable to discuss with me. Yes, she had feelings for him, perhaps even love, but it was dwarfed by her almost immeasurable love for me. She agreed to quit her job, and gave two months notice. He didn’t attempt any kind of contact with me, and I was glad.


8

And eventually, life returned to it’s natural flow. After a considerable amount of effort on both our parts, the matter had been resolved. I had forgiven and forgotten, and she had reassured me in her love and respect for me. And things really started to get pretty damn good. Our relationship had hit an all time high, and we were more in love with each other than ever before.

Until I came home this evening, after cancelling my business trip, with a bottle of white and a bunch of fresh roses, to see that fat **** leaving our apartment block, a broad grin on his face, and a swagger in his step.

9

And the rest, as they say, is history. It wasn’t really all that dramatic to be honest. I opened the front door, climbed the staircase to our apartment, noticing my horny neighbour on the way. I nodded and admired her *** as she walked past me. Might as well, I thought, I’m not going to be with this two timing ***** for much longer.

I opened the door, and closed it silently behind me, placing the wine and flowers on the hall table. I entered the kitchen to find her standing in only her blouse, her cheeks flustered and her body surrounded by that musky after-sex smell. Her green eyes had acquired a pleasant laziness to them. I felt a stirring in my loins as I looked upon them. She looked more beautiful than ever before. But I mustn’t let that distract me. She had to be punished, and severely. She had lied, and misplaced my trust. I would likely be taking the scars from her betrayal all the way to my grave. She looked at me standing in the doorway, and attempted to read the expression on my face. She didn’t know. She was likely cursing in her head, about how close she had come to getting caught.

She started to approach me, a sly smile and a glint in her eyes. I almost fell in love with her again. I grabbed a large wooden handled knife from the rack, and plunged it straight into her chest, before she could even acknowledge what was happening. She fell to the floor, a wet gurgling sound in her throat, her eyes moving from shock, to confusion, to pain. She writhed on the floor for several minutes, her eyes never leaving mine, her hands reaching for me all the time, eventually falling limp on the floor as the air escaped her lungs for the last time. The last readable expression on her face, before it turned into a frozen grimace, was one of affection and longing. For me. My heart rendered in two as the realisation of what had happened struck me. I just ended the life of the most beautiful, intelligent, kindly, sweet, humorous, caring and innocent soul I had ever known and loved. Well, maybe not so innocent, thought I. But the rest was true.

I loved her, and I killed her.

She’s gone.

10



I can still hear her through the closed door.

Whispers.

Affectionate whispers. Questioning whispers. Accusing whispers.

I can hear her nails scraping on the door. Every now and then, the handle turns a little, but her efforts are fruitless, she barely has the strength. Eventually the whispering stops, and I move into the bedroom, to find her sprawled across the bed, the sheets red and crumpled. I stop in my steps, and fix her eyes. Walking into the bathroom, her eyes never leave mine.

I pull back the shower curtain to find her laying in the tub, her neck at an impossible angle. Eyes, again, watching mine. The expression on her face is impossible to read, but it could be affection. It could be loathing. Hell, it could be horniness for all I can tell. Nevertheless, it haunts me, sending a chill into the deepest recesses of my mind.

Tearing my gaze from hers, I turn the taps both to full.

Returning to the living room, I switch off the TV.

In the hallway, I pick up the now purposeless roses, smell them briefly, and then grab the wine.

In the kitchen I find two glasses, and fill them. I sit on the floor next to her body, her eyes on mine. I drink my wine, and leave the second glass, and the roses, next to her, giving her forehead a kiss and whispering ‘Happy Birthday’ before getting up.

Her eyes follow me out of the room, through the living room, the bedroom, and meet me again in the bathroom.

The bath is nearly full, so I turn off the taps. I search in the mirror cabinet for something, and, upon finding it, climb fully clothed into the tub. I lay with my feet at the taps, so she is sitting opposite me.

It’s clear what I have to do. I look at her, and tell her how much I love her. I’m crying now, and so is she, our tears sinking into the warm water, molecules merging, swirling and flowing around the tub before finding each other and embracing.

Together.

I fiddle with my razor for a few seconds, before finally loosing the blade, applying it to my wrists, and lying back in a sea of red, my blurry gaze never leaving those deep, vivid green eyes.

11

So here I am.

I wonder what to eat tonight. It’s a perfectly lazy summer afternoon, as I stroll through the market. I pass the fish stall, and the heat makes the smell almost unbearable. My stomach twists and I pick up speed. After a few minutes of idle wandering, I chance upon the pasta stall. Now, pasta, that’s a good idea, I think to myself.

I’m considering a portion of spaghetti, when out of nowhere, I catch the unmistakable scent of cinnamon.






End.
 
Re: Since you can read it all here now...

Pandrio said:
You no longer have a reason to pass this up.
Click to expand...

Ah, my rabid fan base of horny teenage girls. And Pandrio. Thanks man, you're my greatest supporter!:D
 
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