After the long winter come home alone, happy to be so free, no one to wake at three a.m. stereo blaring a slow sludge cacophony chiseling away at the little drywall left holding the ceiling up; acting as umbrella during the thunderstorm raging outside slashing the trees barer than any Fall. Kill another hour to make time seem useless, and forget... something. Calculate the decadal distance between human visits produced at the insistence of none then witness a silhouette emerge triggering an urge to purge with tongue and fist the violence pent up, battering ink pools to get rid of shadows. Staining the floorboards with knuckle brushes dripping red.
Raging bull stomping around feels a sharp prick stab into hoof. Unable to ignore glance at the wound, and pull a bone shard out. Recollect the silhouette felt hard as wood at first then soft as dough. Slide a tooth out from between the middle and ring finger -- canine -- but don't risk a peek at the source.
Take the chance. Who the fuck is that? Enough face to see it wasn't who had it coming. The pieces missing are the best parts of the story. They could be anything:
... a young girl first time away from home meets a lonely silver tongued bull in a bar, goes home with him, gets gored.
... hired a hooker to act as a bed warmer, but she resembles too much the lost touch that used to soothe burning nerves, so gets wrecked -- murder in effigy.
... buddies after a few shared beers. Neither wanted to stop, so off to the closer home for refills, and it just seemed right, spoiling for a fight, since no one would miss one bar fly.
... the good neighbor came to see what's the matter, music blaring this late, didn't want to call the cops; another five minutes might've walked in on tears instead of blood thirst -- wrong place, wrong time.
... there's nothing there.
... they're all here in different parts of the house.
Pick your possibility, and consider what it says about you.
Raging bull stomping around feels a sharp prick stab into hoof. Unable to ignore glance at the wound, and pull a bone shard out. Recollect the silhouette felt hard as wood at first then soft as dough. Slide a tooth out from between the middle and ring finger -- canine -- but don't risk a peek at the source.
Take the chance. Who the fuck is that? Enough face to see it wasn't who had it coming. The pieces missing are the best parts of the story. They could be anything:
... a young girl first time away from home meets a lonely silver tongued bull in a bar, goes home with him, gets gored.
... hired a hooker to act as a bed warmer, but she resembles too much the lost touch that used to soothe burning nerves, so gets wrecked -- murder in effigy.
... buddies after a few shared beers. Neither wanted to stop, so off to the closer home for refills, and it just seemed right, spoiling for a fight, since no one would miss one bar fly.
... the good neighbor came to see what's the matter, music blaring this late, didn't want to call the cops; another five minutes might've walked in on tears instead of blood thirst -- wrong place, wrong time.
... there's nothing there.
... they're all here in different parts of the house.
Pick your possibility, and consider what it says about you.
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