Nicole was a million miles away and no one could bring her back.
She walked outside, her black coat flapping in the wind. One particular gust of wind revealed her stained dress; the red splotches on her white dress looked almost formulaic. She generally didn't like white, but it suited the occasion. Nicole smiled as the thought about the first step she had taken today on her much anticipated path. Nicole turned her back to the clinic, reminiscing.
"How're they doing doctor?"
Dr. Evans looked at her chart skeptically.Her eyes rapidly moved from left to right, scanning the paper for clues. Her skeptic eyes rested on the hands that held Nicole's coat closed; finally they stopped in Nicole's eyes.
"This one is suffering from severe head trauma--kinda strange for a guy who fell down the stairs..." she said while glancing back Nicole's hands.
"I just found him on the floor near the bottom of the stairs. I've no idea what happened," Nicole smoothly explained, all the time looking at the paper clip in Dr. Evans' hands.
"I heard they found a bloody wrench at the top of the stairs...you'd have to be really psychotic to do something like that...wouldn't you agree?" Dr. Evans said, looking at the spot where Nicole's coat happened to open when she moved her hand to sweep her hair off her face.
She walked to the other unconscious man's bed adjacent to the first.
"What about him?" Nicole said, attempting not to break into the grin that had been threatening to reveal her achievements. All air of professionalism left Dr. Evans instantly as soon as Nicole mentioned him.
"Mr Bronehart--grotesque is the only word I can think of to... describe...surprised he's still alive. Scalped, his left arm--gone," at this she paused, eyes locked in one place on the sheet. "His left eye was found in his right hand," again she paused, a shade of green had made it's way onto the doctor's face. "...lips sewn together...I can't--." She mumbled, hand over mouth, charging to the bathroom.
What she hadn't mentioned were the words carved on his chest.
"Goodbye" she'd said aloud, as she'd walked out of the ICU of the clinic.
Standing on the curb of the clinic, her head turned to stare at the world in front of her, the long absent sun on her face. She walked to subway and waited. Lights, sounds, the train. She peeled the coat off her and placed it in the trash next to the phone booth. The long sleeves of the dress provided some warmth; besides, the sharp stabs of cold around her couldn't penetrate the heat radiating from the raging fire inside her.
"I love your dress," a woman said as she stepped onto the train.
Nicole smiled her sweet malicious smile, enjoying her newfound freedom and destiny.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Strange Obsession
She knew it.
But she didn't know him.
She'd been thinking of him all day, all week. She finally admitted to herself that even before the scarf, she had thought about him. Fleeting thoughts, not like she thought of him now. Elbow on desk, chin cupped in her raised arm, fingers tapping the counter. It was a slow day that gave her too much time to indulge in her addictive thoughts.
She had to know more about him. What about the guy at the strip club and bar? No time for that now. No time to ponder her own unfulfilled life. She smiled at the much appreciated distraction.
But she didn't know him.
She'd been thinking of him all day, all week. She finally admitted to herself that even before the scarf, she had thought about him. Fleeting thoughts, not like she thought of him now. Elbow on desk, chin cupped in her raised arm, fingers tapping the counter. It was a slow day that gave her too much time to indulge in her addictive thoughts.
She had to know more about him. What about the guy at the strip club and bar? No time for that now. No time to ponder her own unfulfilled life. She smiled at the much appreciated distraction.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
And Then Some...
A van. The last rays of sun hit the shiny onyx surface of the vehicle.
There's the man who she saw at the bar and at the strip club. Why had she been at the strip club? Oh right, boredom. She didn't strip, not enough balance. She had almost ran into a woman walking into the clinic because she was so lost in her thoughts. She had been on her way to see Molina when the van passed. She didn't know why the van was so important, she didn't know why she couldn't look away. She did know, however, that she felt better. Everything was going to fall into place, she knew it.
She knew it.
There's the man who she saw at the bar and at the strip club. Why had she been at the strip club? Oh right, boredom. She didn't strip, not enough balance. She had almost ran into a woman walking into the clinic because she was so lost in her thoughts. She had been on her way to see Molina when the van passed. She didn't know why the van was so important, she didn't know why she couldn't look away. She did know, however, that she felt better. Everything was going to fall into place, she knew it.
She knew it.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Center
Nicole placed the scarf on the couch when she entered the apartment. It was smoldering red, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. She had to admit, it was nice scarf. She took her boots off, placed her purse near the door. She peeled her jacket off her warm skin, and walked over to the sink of the “kitchen.” Her eyes never left the red gift draped on her couch. She had seen him walking down the street, but she hadn’t noticed him walk in. She heard the bell, but it didn’t register that anything of interest had happened. He asked for a coffee—it was he. She remembered him from the bar, she also remembered him ignoring her completely.
“Want a scarf?” his voice was gruff, but somehow wrapped up in velvet at the same time.
He caught her off guard, but he didn’t see that.
“Thanks,” conjuring up just enough boredom in my voice to hide the surprise that I felt. It wasn’t until he was out of the shop with his back safely to me that I chanced a small smile. I scooped up the scarf and walked to the back. It was soft as much as it was red. Scarf in hand, she sat on the metal chair facing the mirror.
She looked at herself in the mirror with the scarf cradled in her arms. She’d gone out the other night because she couldn’t stand the steady hum of things left undone. Watching the red cover her hands in the reflection, she reflected on the useless night that had been her attempt at an escape; she only made things worse. The steady thud of the bass in the club had only exasperated her thoughts. She watched everyone, taking her time to make sure that she got each and everyone of them. Each had their own agenda to attend to, not one of them was paying her any mind. They saw her and they moved on, one more memory in that vast expanse of things forgotten.
The other day she almost had it, she’d been so close. Just as soon as the solution had come to her it had gone, on the floor with the rest of the wine that she had spilled in her brief realization. She had fallen to her knees and cried. Hands on the floor, in the pool of things she would never understand. She knew what she wanted to do, but somehow she knew that that wasn’t the answer. She hated this. She looked into her eyes, searching, in vain. Giving up, she lay her head in her arms, forehead in the pool of the simple scarf.
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, she tried to hold them back—she couldn’t. Lost tears fell from her eyes and stained the scarf under her. As soon as she these insults on the clean fabric, she stopped.
She fixed herself before she raised her head to look at herself in the mirror. Again? No more crying, this is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Take a step back, what have you missed?
She didn't know much now, but she knew that she shouldn't be sitting here. She got up with the intent to see a "friend."
She made her way to apartment 212--Molina.
“Want a scarf?” his voice was gruff, but somehow wrapped up in velvet at the same time.
He caught her off guard, but he didn’t see that.
“Thanks,” conjuring up just enough boredom in my voice to hide the surprise that I felt. It wasn’t until he was out of the shop with his back safely to me that I chanced a small smile. I scooped up the scarf and walked to the back. It was soft as much as it was red. Scarf in hand, she sat on the metal chair facing the mirror.
She looked at herself in the mirror with the scarf cradled in her arms. She’d gone out the other night because she couldn’t stand the steady hum of things left undone. Watching the red cover her hands in the reflection, she reflected on the useless night that had been her attempt at an escape; she only made things worse. The steady thud of the bass in the club had only exasperated her thoughts. She watched everyone, taking her time to make sure that she got each and everyone of them. Each had their own agenda to attend to, not one of them was paying her any mind. They saw her and they moved on, one more memory in that vast expanse of things forgotten.
The other day she almost had it, she’d been so close. Just as soon as the solution had come to her it had gone, on the floor with the rest of the wine that she had spilled in her brief realization. She had fallen to her knees and cried. Hands on the floor, in the pool of things she would never understand. She knew what she wanted to do, but somehow she knew that that wasn’t the answer. She hated this. She looked into her eyes, searching, in vain. Giving up, she lay her head in her arms, forehead in the pool of the simple scarf.
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, she tried to hold them back—she couldn’t. Lost tears fell from her eyes and stained the scarf under her. As soon as she these insults on the clean fabric, she stopped.
She fixed herself before she raised her head to look at herself in the mirror. Again? No more crying, this is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Take a step back, what have you missed?
She didn't know much now, but she knew that she shouldn't be sitting here. She got up with the intent to see a "friend."
She made her way to apartment 212--Molina.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Maybe
Nicole lay on the bed. Still slightly drunk from the night before. She was surprised that she had made it to work. If it hadn't been for Clio in the hall she probably would've thrown up everywhere, but her presence made it impossible: she had her pride to think about. The rain had woken slightly. Laying on the floor, it hit her harder than the hangover that she knew would follow this numbing solitude. She knew what she had to do.
And she would do it.
And she would do it.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Course of Action
She brought the glass of red liquid to her lips, reflecting on the events of the
day, pondering over what would happen next. Her legs covered in dark boots crossed, swinging in the air off the stool. She didn’t lean on the bar, as did the gentlemen who had been continuously consuming shots since he got here. She hadn’t seen him before, at least not before she left. He’d looked at her only once and ignored her the rest of the time—she hated him.
Bored of the rather dull atmosphere—no music, no entertainment, no men—she finished her numbing elixir in a soft gulp, head tilted back, long dark hair sweeping her back in fierce strokes. Rising, she grabbed her leather jacket and proceeded to the door. Putting on the jacket, she reached to pull the door open. A wave of shock hit as the blinding white light met her eyes—and he entered. Compared to the atmosphere, he was a God.
“Excuse me,” I managed to purr, as I brushed past, careful to graze his perfect arm as he held the door for me. She’d have to keep special tabs on him.
Her boots echoed as she made her way on the pavement, boots echoing her every step, unable to penetrate the noise of the city traffic. Without a destination in mind, her thoughts crept to the men she’d just met. She envied them. The alcoholic, in all his distasteful existence, seemed to even then have purpose, a reason. Since she got back, the direction of her life seemed elusive. She’d always lacked specific direction in her life, but she had an overwhelming sense that something needed to be dealt with—she just didn’t know what yet. It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how much alcohol she consumed. Wine—she needed more. Interestingly enough, her mind had been one step ahead of her; she had somehow made it to the front of Manny’s Grocery.
She entered the store. Taking a basket, she made her down the aisles to get to wine section. She thought back to the women she hadn’t previously given notice to: the weird woman on the sidewalk and the annoying twit on the elevator; even they had some path that they were drifting along, no matter how insignificant. She stood in the aisle, staring at the glass bottles that would be her sweet aid. Some woman was muttering next to her, she was also staring. She appreciated this woman’s taste, but it was rude to stare, even if it was at Nicole. She left the aisle, and bought her wine. Number one task out of the way, she headed to the coffee shop.
Sun high in the sky, she entered the shop.
Oh dear. Molina was in the convenience store talking to Dillain. The ding of the bell signaled her entrance, and they both looked up. Molina made a smart comment, followed by another. Nicole ignored her and went to the back room. She set her bag down and changed. Dark jeans and red blouse on, she returned to the front. Dillain had left, which only left Molina. How she was not in the mood…
“So?” Molina questioned, hand on hip, impatience in her voice.
“I wasn’t in my apartment, obviously. How can I help you?” Nicole retorted with equal attitude.
“Jus’ wanted to check on ya, hadn’t heard from you in a long time.” Her lack of speaking skills always infuriated her, other than that, Molina wasn’t so bad. Nicole even enjoyed her company some of the time, she’d been a good friend before she left.
“I’ll try to answer my phone next time, or bring my cell phone with me; whichever.” Effectively assured, Molina left.
And so work began.
Dillain entered the shop at 12 a.m., right on time.
“I’ll see you later,” Nicole said as she flew past him in her hurry to leave. She’d bee so eager to leave she’d almost hit him on her way out. She loved and hated Sketch Coffee. Taking ownership from her uncle had been easy enough, but as far as she knew, her uncle got the better end of the deal. Walking back to her building, home, she considered the people who’d come in. A woman, young, pretty brown hair, poor. Taking out change like an imbecile to pay for her coffee, which had been difficult to “make” in and of itself. A man who’d bust in the store, unwashed. She knew that these people stayed in her building, but that didn’t make them any more appealing to talk to, however convenient it might be.
When she stepped off the elevator on the 11th floor, she noticed a strange and eaciated character jiggling the door knob of my apartment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Well obviously I am trying to break into your apartment. It's much more difficult than it looks, I usually have someone else do this. Regardless, there is no point in continuing, I shall take my leave."
She'd of kicked his ass, but she had she more pressing matters to deal with; however, she wouldn't forget this encounter--or this insect. She watched him walk away and push the button of the elevator. She memorized his statue and appearance--she stored it in her memory for later. She entered the apartment. She breathed a huge sigh as she threw herself on the couch. Her dress and drinks were in the bag, but she’d get them later. With nothing to occupy her mind, she considered the problem that lay ahead and behind her. Something needed to be done about something, she just didn’t know what. She raised up and placed her arms on her knees, head in her hands. The unknown task harassed her thoughts until impatience flowed into her limbs. She had to get out.
She switched from jeans to her short, pleated, black skirt. She grabbed boots from her closet—red. The cold wouldn’t bother her after a few drinks, so she left her jacket and left the troubling apartment.
day, pondering over what would happen next. Her legs covered in dark boots crossed, swinging in the air off the stool. She didn’t lean on the bar, as did the gentlemen who had been continuously consuming shots since he got here. She hadn’t seen him before, at least not before she left. He’d looked at her only once and ignored her the rest of the time—she hated him.
Bored of the rather dull atmosphere—no music, no entertainment, no men—she finished her numbing elixir in a soft gulp, head tilted back, long dark hair sweeping her back in fierce strokes. Rising, she grabbed her leather jacket and proceeded to the door. Putting on the jacket, she reached to pull the door open. A wave of shock hit as the blinding white light met her eyes—and he entered. Compared to the atmosphere, he was a God.
“Excuse me,” I managed to purr, as I brushed past, careful to graze his perfect arm as he held the door for me. She’d have to keep special tabs on him.
Her boots echoed as she made her way on the pavement, boots echoing her every step, unable to penetrate the noise of the city traffic. Without a destination in mind, her thoughts crept to the men she’d just met. She envied them. The alcoholic, in all his distasteful existence, seemed to even then have purpose, a reason. Since she got back, the direction of her life seemed elusive. She’d always lacked specific direction in her life, but she had an overwhelming sense that something needed to be dealt with—she just didn’t know what yet. It was like an itch that couldn’t be scratched, no matter how much alcohol she consumed. Wine—she needed more. Interestingly enough, her mind had been one step ahead of her; she had somehow made it to the front of Manny’s Grocery.
She entered the store. Taking a basket, she made her down the aisles to get to wine section. She thought back to the women she hadn’t previously given notice to: the weird woman on the sidewalk and the annoying twit on the elevator; even they had some path that they were drifting along, no matter how insignificant. She stood in the aisle, staring at the glass bottles that would be her sweet aid. Some woman was muttering next to her, she was also staring. She appreciated this woman’s taste, but it was rude to stare, even if it was at Nicole. She left the aisle, and bought her wine. Number one task out of the way, she headed to the coffee shop.
Sun high in the sky, she entered the shop.
Oh dear. Molina was in the convenience store talking to Dillain. The ding of the bell signaled her entrance, and they both looked up. Molina made a smart comment, followed by another. Nicole ignored her and went to the back room. She set her bag down and changed. Dark jeans and red blouse on, she returned to the front. Dillain had left, which only left Molina. How she was not in the mood…
“So?” Molina questioned, hand on hip, impatience in her voice.
“I wasn’t in my apartment, obviously. How can I help you?” Nicole retorted with equal attitude.
“Jus’ wanted to check on ya, hadn’t heard from you in a long time.” Her lack of speaking skills always infuriated her, other than that, Molina wasn’t so bad. Nicole even enjoyed her company some of the time, she’d been a good friend before she left.
“I’ll try to answer my phone next time, or bring my cell phone with me; whichever.” Effectively assured, Molina left.
And so work began.
Dillain entered the shop at 12 a.m., right on time.
“I’ll see you later,” Nicole said as she flew past him in her hurry to leave. She’d bee so eager to leave she’d almost hit him on her way out. She loved and hated Sketch Coffee. Taking ownership from her uncle had been easy enough, but as far as she knew, her uncle got the better end of the deal. Walking back to her building, home, she considered the people who’d come in. A woman, young, pretty brown hair, poor. Taking out change like an imbecile to pay for her coffee, which had been difficult to “make” in and of itself. A man who’d bust in the store, unwashed. She knew that these people stayed in her building, but that didn’t make them any more appealing to talk to, however convenient it might be.
When she stepped off the elevator on the 11th floor, she noticed a strange and eaciated character jiggling the door knob of my apartment.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Well obviously I am trying to break into your apartment. It's much more difficult than it looks, I usually have someone else do this. Regardless, there is no point in continuing, I shall take my leave."
She'd of kicked his ass, but she had she more pressing matters to deal with; however, she wouldn't forget this encounter--or this insect. She watched him walk away and push the button of the elevator. She memorized his statue and appearance--she stored it in her memory for later. She entered the apartment. She breathed a huge sigh as she threw herself on the couch. Her dress and drinks were in the bag, but she’d get them later. With nothing to occupy her mind, she considered the problem that lay ahead and behind her. Something needed to be done about something, she just didn’t know what. She raised up and placed her arms on her knees, head in her hands. The unknown task harassed her thoughts until impatience flowed into her limbs. She had to get out.
She switched from jeans to her short, pleated, black skirt. She grabbed boots from her closet—red. The cold wouldn’t bother her after a few drinks, so she left her jacket and left the troubling apartment.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Back in Apt. 1112
Legs crossed, dark red pump rocking impatiently in the
air, she sat on the couch and stared at the door
opposite her over her glass of equally red wine. Her
only movement included blinking and the occasional tip
of the glass to her waiting lips. The only sound heard
was the constant drip, drip of the sink.
He was late. She had been courteous enuogh to call
ahead of time, an entire day in fact. He said he'd be
here at 8:00--it was now 8:06. Drip, drip, drip...It's
not like she expected him to be here exactly at 8:00,
he had to travel all the way to the 11th floor, to
room 1112. That took time, she understood. She was so
understanding, she'd give him an extra two minutes to
get here--drip, drip,drip. She put the glass to her
lips--drip--and took another sip; How does one know
they've taken a sip or not? How does one measure a
sip? Does it matter, no one's here--drip, drip--to
dictate how much I have...no one's here to even object
to alcohol in the morning anymore...doesn't matter.
She grinned to her self as she raised the glass to her
lips. She shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of
civility that surrounded this place. Ever since she
got back a week ago, she'd endured the stupidity,
incompetence, and outright retardation that are the
people that inhabit this hell hole. Washington
Heights--drip--how she missed it's grime covered walls
and it's less than adequate heating system. Drip--it
was depressing, it probably violated every health code
possible,--drip--but it sure beat where she'd recently
been--drip. It's not like being there had been hard,
but--drip--she desired, nay, needed her freedom. Yeah,
he was late, but it was better than the blatant
disrespect that she'd suffered--drip, drip--there. She
went by Coley, not Nicole. She hated that name, and
she tirelessly reminded them of that everyday, but
they--drip--refused to get it right, claiming they
knew better than her what she deserved. She turned
her head to the clock hanging--drip--on the wall near
the--drip--window, 8:11--drip. She got up, oblivous of
the glass in her hand, oblivious to the crash it made
as it met the unforgiving hard wood floor, oblivious
to the sharp remains surrounded in a crimson pool. She
began marching to the kitchen to do something about
that annoying drip of the faucet. She stopped short of
the kitchen when she heard the rap at the door.
She sweeped around to look at the door, hand on hip.
Knock, knock, knock. She walked to the door, slower,
purposeful. She stopped at the door, hand on the knob.
She didn't turn the handle, instead she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply...She thought back to why she
had to leave in the first place...Knock, knock--she
was in control. She opened her eyes and turned the
knob.
"You're late."
"Look lady, you're not the only person in the world
that requires my services."
Nicole wrinkled her nose, he didn't sound nearly as
bad as he smelled.
"Are you gonna let me in?"
She thought about it. Might as well, he was here for a
reason despite his obvious lack of repsect for her
time and her patience. She stepped aside without a
word, glaring at him all the time. She glared as he
dragged his feet to the kitchen, as he took out his
tools, as he began to examine the kitchen sink.
"So what's wrong with--what happened?"
This was unexpected, didn't he hear the constant
vexing drips of the damned sink? Yeah, he obviously
came from a worse shit hole than she'd ever been, but
was he really this dense? She hated ignorance. She
turned to where he was looking.
"What the hell's wrong with you? I want you to stop
that damned dripping,"
She lit a cigarette while she spoke, which she now put
to her lips--last one, needed to go out later and get
more.
"The mess doesn't concern you, fix the sink.'
8:17. She watched him work, leaning on the wall,
taking a drag every so often. She thought on his
tardiness, his rudeness, his abscence of self worth:
shoddy clothing, no people skills, no reason to live.
She looked at the sleek wrench sticking out of his
toolbox, it was everything he was not: clean, strong,
perfect...useful. She thought about ending the misery
of this fulfilled object. It'd be easy to eliminate
one more counterproductive organism that God puts on
this earth out of pure laziness; It'd be easy to take
that lustrous metal across his dirty face, to hit him
again and again, to hear his futile screams, to watch
his pathetic attempts to defend himself. Then again,
he might not defend himself: he's worthless, surely he
knows that. Surely he'd know that no one would
possibly come for him, of all people...
"That'll be--." He looked all the way up at me.
Without knowing it, she found herself not an inch away
from him, wrench in hand, cigarette in the other.
"Get out."
He heard a calm voice, but he saw a troubled girl, a
demented gleam in her eye. He hastily grabbed his
tools (leaving the wrench) and stumbled to the door
and left. She walked over to the door, grinning to
herself, and grabbed her jacket and boots nearby. The
leather felt cool on her skin, the contrast of her
deep red dress with the black boots and jacket pleased
her immensely. With the supply of her daily morning
drink on the floor, she needed to get her buzz from
somewhere else; she also needed to celebrate her
recent victory. Wrench thrown on the couch, she left
apartment 1112 and headed to the bar down the street.
It was good to be back.
air, she sat on the couch and stared at the door
opposite her over her glass of equally red wine. Her
only movement included blinking and the occasional tip
of the glass to her waiting lips. The only sound heard
was the constant drip, drip of the sink.
He was late. She had been courteous enuogh to call
ahead of time, an entire day in fact. He said he'd be
here at 8:00--it was now 8:06. Drip, drip, drip...It's
not like she expected him to be here exactly at 8:00,
he had to travel all the way to the 11th floor, to
room 1112. That took time, she understood. She was so
understanding, she'd give him an extra two minutes to
get here--drip, drip,drip. She put the glass to her
lips--drip--and took another sip; How does one know
they've taken a sip or not? How does one measure a
sip? Does it matter, no one's here--drip, drip--to
dictate how much I have...no one's here to even object
to alcohol in the morning anymore...doesn't matter.
She grinned to her self as she raised the glass to her
lips. She shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of
civility that surrounded this place. Ever since she
got back a week ago, she'd endured the stupidity,
incompetence, and outright retardation that are the
people that inhabit this hell hole. Washington
Heights--drip--how she missed it's grime covered walls
and it's less than adequate heating system. Drip--it
was depressing, it probably violated every health code
possible,--drip--but it sure beat where she'd recently
been--drip. It's not like being there had been hard,
but--drip--she desired, nay, needed her freedom. Yeah,
he was late, but it was better than the blatant
disrespect that she'd suffered--drip, drip--there. She
went by Coley, not Nicole. She hated that name, and
she tirelessly reminded them of that everyday, but
they--drip--refused to get it right, claiming they
knew better than her what she deserved. She turned
her head to the clock hanging--drip--on the wall near
the--drip--window, 8:11--drip. She got up, oblivous of
the glass in her hand, oblivious to the crash it made
as it met the unforgiving hard wood floor, oblivious
to the sharp remains surrounded in a crimson pool. She
began marching to the kitchen to do something about
that annoying drip of the faucet. She stopped short of
the kitchen when she heard the rap at the door.
She sweeped around to look at the door, hand on hip.
Knock, knock, knock. She walked to the door, slower,
purposeful. She stopped at the door, hand on the knob.
She didn't turn the handle, instead she closed her
eyes and inhaled deeply...She thought back to why she
had to leave in the first place...Knock, knock--she
was in control. She opened her eyes and turned the
knob.
"You're late."
"Look lady, you're not the only person in the world
that requires my services."
Nicole wrinkled her nose, he didn't sound nearly as
bad as he smelled.
"Are you gonna let me in?"
She thought about it. Might as well, he was here for a
reason despite his obvious lack of repsect for her
time and her patience. She stepped aside without a
word, glaring at him all the time. She glared as he
dragged his feet to the kitchen, as he took out his
tools, as he began to examine the kitchen sink.
"So what's wrong with--what happened?"
This was unexpected, didn't he hear the constant
vexing drips of the damned sink? Yeah, he obviously
came from a worse shit hole than she'd ever been, but
was he really this dense? She hated ignorance. She
turned to where he was looking.
"What the hell's wrong with you? I want you to stop
that damned dripping,"
She lit a cigarette while she spoke, which she now put
to her lips--last one, needed to go out later and get
more.
"The mess doesn't concern you, fix the sink.'
8:17. She watched him work, leaning on the wall,
taking a drag every so often. She thought on his
tardiness, his rudeness, his abscence of self worth:
shoddy clothing, no people skills, no reason to live.
She looked at the sleek wrench sticking out of his
toolbox, it was everything he was not: clean, strong,
perfect...useful. She thought about ending the misery
of this fulfilled object. It'd be easy to eliminate
one more counterproductive organism that God puts on
this earth out of pure laziness; It'd be easy to take
that lustrous metal across his dirty face, to hit him
again and again, to hear his futile screams, to watch
his pathetic attempts to defend himself. Then again,
he might not defend himself: he's worthless, surely he
knows that. Surely he'd know that no one would
possibly come for him, of all people...
"That'll be--." He looked all the way up at me.
Without knowing it, she found herself not an inch away
from him, wrench in hand, cigarette in the other.
"Get out."
He heard a calm voice, but he saw a troubled girl, a
demented gleam in her eye. He hastily grabbed his
tools (leaving the wrench) and stumbled to the door
and left. She walked over to the door, grinning to
herself, and grabbed her jacket and boots nearby. The
leather felt cool on her skin, the contrast of her
deep red dress with the black boots and jacket pleased
her immensely. With the supply of her daily morning
drink on the floor, she needed to get her buzz from
somewhere else; she also needed to celebrate her
recent victory. Wrench thrown on the couch, she left
apartment 1112 and headed to the bar down the street.
It was good to be back.
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