Don’t Look At Me I Don’t Like It
Considering the way that she was, it wasn’t a secret that when she got a feeling that she was good, she felt it would be the last time. Everything around her was as evil as she was. Sitting cross legged on her bed, she smiled as Nat King Cole came through a Bluetooth speaker in the bathroom. The light flickered on and off, lightbulbs worn down from constantly being abused. The light forced day and night to provide a service so she could drag her feet across the tile and dance slowly alone. Sleeping on an old-new quilt, she could smell the stench of a flea market coming through the threads. Her thighs itched as so did she to steal something. For a brief moment she had to question whether or not she was a kleptomaniac, in the end it was decided she was not. And her thighs warmed the longer she sat still against the headboard. Smiling each and every time a song skipped over, eventually as The Pied Pipers graced their way with a 1940s blue-and-white-diner-horror-film type of emotion, fate was all decided. A voice called her name and sat beside her, taking her hand and meeting it with a bony wrist, it was the first out of many greetings. The wrist was as cold as you might imagine a Grim Reapers wrist might be. Although this was far from death, the wrist (attached to a body — a semi decent one to be exact) dressed in a silky black flappers dress pushed her across the hall. reassuring her it was okay like a mother tells a child to walk into the classroom on the first day of school. The child cries, and so did she as she pushed the door open. The money in the second bedroom was gone, and for a moment she thought she was having a flashback of something that never happened — of coercing money to come to her. The jingle of pennies was less tempting than a dollar so she lay against the floor, staring up at the jar nearly empty. The wrist attached to a semi decent body laid next to her. They looked like corpses, white from terror of being caught and of sheer exhaustion. “I want you to be happy,” said the wrist attached to the semi decent body “and I want to be happy with you”. A gulp only entered her throat, a tear, and another itch on her thigh. “And I think you keep forgetting, that I am a person and not some vague concept you dreamt up one night in a fever dream” The music somehow increased from across the hall and it seemed like she would never leave from the second floor. “There is no fate or moving on” she ran, down the stairs and past the overcooked brownies sitting on a baking sheet in the kitchen, the television which was playing Seinfeld when Elaine attempted to convert a gay man into loving her (and she thought it reflected the current situation of her life quite well) and past the broken record player that kept skipping over and over again. Or at least, she attempted to run. Her own wrists chained down to the wood floor stopped her. The semi decent body whispered softly in her head again “there really is no fate or moving on, darling” the bony and cold wrist moved a piece of hair in front of her eye “only running away” And everyone assumed she just simply couldn’t run away. So they both lay there on the floor in silence.
She was in that situation before, they just made sure she forgot.