Volare

June 3, 2012
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Too Many Secrets


All her memories were lost when that bullet glided cleanly into her skull. Any thoughts were interrupted, and her last breath followed shortly after. By the time I arrive, the smell is already putrid and the vultures had shown up a while ago. The sun is frying my skin as I slowly let it all sink in. The bullet to the head was the one to finish her, but it was simply skipping ahead to the final act. Cigarette burns cover her arms and feet, while cuts litter her body, some deeper than others. Ignoring the hole in her forehead, her face lay unmarked. The girl’s mouth lay slightly agape, as if just beginning to scream. Her solemn blue eyes stare at me hollowly.

(You’ve Got) The Magic Touch


Cigarette smoke clouded the bar, drifting hazily away from each person’s mouth and nostrils. So thick, it replaced the oxygen in the room. I sat at the bar blinded by the smoke. The only things to pierce it were those eyes - a fine balance between sapphires and the clearest of skies. They were locked with mine and in one swift movement they were crossing the room. Sweat began to form on my palms and forehead. I took another sip of my drink to steady my nerves. Through the smog her figure appeared. Brown hair flowed down to her shoulders and blended into her slender shape, which sashayed with her hips as she approached me. She wore a brilliant red dress that sparkled when light hit it to match the glimmer of the diamond necklace wrapped around her neck. She said her name was Betty…

Fly Me To The Moon


Every waking moment was joyous. Whether I was beside her or not, life was easier. Knowing she was mine, and I hers, made even the most mundane of tasks exciting. Every minute that ended meant one less till the next time I would get to see her. I’d pick her up from the flower shop she worked at and would fall into a trance. She’d fill my Buick with a heavenly fragrance, a blend of lavender, roses, and magnolias. Feeling ashamed of my stench from a long day investigating leads in the scorching California sun, I always complimented her on the scent. Betty would always return the compliment with something about how charming or dashing she thought I was. Comments like those always made my heart flutter.

Prelude To A Kiss


Of course, we are human and thus not everything was perfect. She didn’t like how much I worked. I didn’t like her going out so much with friends. I had a bad habit of tracking mud through her apartment after a long work day. She tended to get a little too tipsy at social events, often embarrassing me. These conflicts often led to fights. We’d scream till the room stank of guilt and our throats were raw. Tears would still be rolling down her face and mixing with her drink when I’d return, flowers in hand. And our kiss could have ignited a blazing flame in the coldest depths of the Arctic.

Beyond The Sea


Then, she left for good. I returned home one day to find an envelope with her key on my doorstep. I didn’t believe it at first. Every little noise would fill me with a hope that she would be right around the next corner. Yet when I went to Betty’s apartment building, her landlord said she had just up and left. All my effort had to be summoned to get out of bed in the morning, leaving none to trudge through the day with. My muscles ached, my hair grew greasy, my stomach flabby, and I couldn’t care. Food tasted bland, everything looked repulsive and was even more repulsive to smell. I didn’t believe it at first, but was starting to believe it would last. Then a letter arrived.

Walking After Midnight


I finished up my job at the crime scene and headed for home. I kicked off my shoes – careful not to get any mud on the floor – and poured myself a martini. I took a few sips before I peeled off my work clothes and quickly showered. After slipping into something comfortable, I light a cigarette and sip my martini on the back porch. I close my eyes but can still clearly envision the dead girl’s, and how similar they are to Betty’s. Eventually I lie down, but remain haunted, even to close them for a second. Frustrated, I dig out her letter from a pile on my kitchen counter. I never dialled the number she included in the letter, nor did I ever write back. It had been three months now since I had received it. Emboldened by the martini, I dial the number. A man’s voice, groggy and rough answers. I listen for a few seconds before hanging up and pouring myself another martini.





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calchik said...
Jun. 13, 2012 at 2:23 pm
Really nice! Love it! Good Job!
 
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