Grey Metal
It lay between us. Heavy on the table, glinting cold in the blinking lights.
Christmas - the wind wrapping us in the house. Outside, for miles, are gravel roads that lead behind the airport, near the factories, to dead ends with no streetlights.
Silence between us. And there it is. Waiting for one of us to take it up. To use this moment for what we knew had been coming, what we had been journeying toward for months, for eternity it seemed. A frozen eternity that wouldnt thaw out in the hot summer sun. Or soften in the fog of autumn. And now sat hard in the winter night on the table.
He takes a long swig out of the last bottle. The red, blue and green lights from someone elses tree cut his profile, sharp, as he turns to stare. I can see his eyes, dark holes, sizing it up.
His arm reaches out, one smooth movement toward the table. I flinch. He sets the bottle down. His hand moves back to his side empty.
Relief, followed quickly by despair, so blurred together I cant tell which is better.
It is still there, waiting.
I look at his empty hands. One is clenched, the other bruised, swollen resting on its side. The hole in the wall behind me is fist shaped. Her picture should be there. I can see it now. She is on Santas lap, in a red velvet dress, blond curls framing her face- smiling with her secret wish.
I reach out. His eyes on my every movement. Were they always this dark? I cant remember how he looks. I used to love to stare at him.
I have the bottle in my hand. Its still there, just inches away.
I bring the bottle to my lips, golden fire burns down. I havent eaten in how many days? The fire forces its way into my stomach, making cracks around the tight pit, finding places to fill.
I shiver against the cold, even with the liquid burning in my throat. I dont know if we forgot to turn the heat on, or if they had shut it off, knowing that nothing would ever warm us again.
No matter how many times I changed my clothes since last summer, they were always heavy and wet. I tried to get the lake water out of them. I ran the dryer non-stop for two weeks. Now I just leave them on, I stopped trying to dry off.
He is standing there holding her. Her small arm draped down, fingers idly drawing in the water, her head nestled against his chest, looking up at the perfect blue sky, taking it in until it makes her blue. Her wet hair still clings in blond curls, limp. The water runs out of his eyes, off his face, and drops onto hers, into her open mouth. She had been there all the time we had searched for her - hiding, just under the water, out of sight.
The light on the lake is so bright. I cant see anymore.
The wind gusts down the road outside the house, rushing past on its way to somewhere better.
I reach out to it. I pick it up off the table, the metal cold in my hands. It contains the end. It contains all our hope.
He watches, carefully, not flinching as I raise it to chest height. The sink drips in the other room, each drop a moment.
We have to end this.
And there it is - flat and grey as the smooth metal. My hands shake pointing it toward him, wanting to let go and to follow the wind down the road.
We have to end this. His eyes find mine and hold me until my shaking thaws last summers tears. I bring it toward my heart.
I rock, holding what the fire didnt burn away of her, but the water did, now encased in a small metal box.
______________________________________
PS Thank you lunacat
PPS This is fiction....mostly.
It lay between us. Heavy on the table, glinting cold in the blinking lights.
Christmas - the wind wrapping us in the house. Outside, for miles, are gravel roads that lead behind the airport, near the factories, to dead ends with no streetlights.
Silence between us. And there it is. Waiting for one of us to take it up. To use this moment for what we knew had been coming, what we had been journeying toward for months, for eternity it seemed. A frozen eternity that wouldnt thaw out in the hot summer sun. Or soften in the fog of autumn. And now sat hard in the winter night on the table.
He takes a long swig out of the last bottle. The red, blue and green lights from someone elses tree cut his profile, sharp, as he turns to stare. I can see his eyes, dark holes, sizing it up.
His arm reaches out, one smooth movement toward the table. I flinch. He sets the bottle down. His hand moves back to his side empty.
Relief, followed quickly by despair, so blurred together I cant tell which is better.
It is still there, waiting.
I look at his empty hands. One is clenched, the other bruised, swollen resting on its side. The hole in the wall behind me is fist shaped. Her picture should be there. I can see it now. She is on Santas lap, in a red velvet dress, blond curls framing her face- smiling with her secret wish.
I reach out. His eyes on my every movement. Were they always this dark? I cant remember how he looks. I used to love to stare at him.
I have the bottle in my hand. Its still there, just inches away.
I bring the bottle to my lips, golden fire burns down. I havent eaten in how many days? The fire forces its way into my stomach, making cracks around the tight pit, finding places to fill.
I shiver against the cold, even with the liquid burning in my throat. I dont know if we forgot to turn the heat on, or if they had shut it off, knowing that nothing would ever warm us again.
No matter how many times I changed my clothes since last summer, they were always heavy and wet. I tried to get the lake water out of them. I ran the dryer non-stop for two weeks. Now I just leave them on, I stopped trying to dry off.
He is standing there holding her. Her small arm draped down, fingers idly drawing in the water, her head nestled against his chest, looking up at the perfect blue sky, taking it in until it makes her blue. Her wet hair still clings in blond curls, limp. The water runs out of his eyes, off his face, and drops onto hers, into her open mouth. She had been there all the time we had searched for her - hiding, just under the water, out of sight.
The light on the lake is so bright. I cant see anymore.
The wind gusts down the road outside the house, rushing past on its way to somewhere better.
I reach out to it. I pick it up off the table, the metal cold in my hands. It contains the end. It contains all our hope.
He watches, carefully, not flinching as I raise it to chest height. The sink drips in the other room, each drop a moment.
We have to end this.
And there it is - flat and grey as the smooth metal. My hands shake pointing it toward him, wanting to let go and to follow the wind down the road.
We have to end this. His eyes find mine and hold me until my shaking thaws last summers tears. I bring it toward my heart.
I rock, holding what the fire didnt burn away of her, but the water did, now encased in a small metal box.
______________________________________
PS Thank you lunacat
PPS This is fiction....mostly.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
Why can't they be more straightforward, knock on the door, and say "Hi, I need drugs. Could I have $50? Otherwise I might feel tempted to break into your lovely home." Then at least we wouldn't be cleaning up after him.