Violence

clyde's laying on a bed. his body is awkward and bony, hitting and cutting corners underneath the thin sheet. florence lays beside him. she's plump; succlent, even. clyde doesn't know her name and doesn't care to. he rolls off the bed. his feet hit the floor and the chill bite knocks inside and out his bones. licking his lips, clyde stands up and pulls his jacket over his bare chest. florence turns over in her sleep, eliciting a a carnal moan and fumble from her pasty and cracked lips. clyde grimaces and zips the jacket to the end. he looks around the room; papers are scattered across the floor.

bills peak from envelopes on the coffee table and cigarette butts air out on the windowsill. but there is a book; a book with torn pages and a tattered cover. the book has no name on the spine, cover or backside. clyde knows the book, though. he'd know it anywhere, the way he knows the gutters on the crooks of the streets. it's not hers, not florence's. 'but,' clyde says to himself as he walks out of the apartment. 'it's not right to steal from strangers.'

there's light rain outside and the puddles spawned hours earlier splash on clyde's boots as he stomps through them. there is no hood on his coat and the water pats his head rhythmically enough to forge a song out of. the walk is long and takes him an hour and thirty-seven minutes; almost eleven at night. he steps in front of his mothers house. there are peach roses in the flowerbed. the gate around her property is a dusty pink, adorned with amateurly painted flowers along the way.

adult spiders and their small dinners have made homes in between the bars. there's no one else outside to watch clyde watch the spider he called charlotte twist a web across the bars. but he was being watched. charlotte knew; in fact, she'd been in the spectators home today and the day before. a sandwich was shared between the spider and fingers. more than that was shared in glances between clyde and the watcher.

clyde pushes through the gate and down the damp pebbled walkway. he smudges wet dirt and the remains of cigarettes on the welcome matt and knockes his knuckles against the door, once, twice, thrice. when the door springs open, a woman busts out and throws her arms around clyde. she pulls back and smiles.

"i knew you'd come back," she says and plants a kiss on his cheek. "i am so sorry."
"you don't have to apologize," clyde says but he's lying. his mouth twitches. "let's go inside, mother."

she nods and lets him in. they walk into the house. it's quiet with soft tipping on the house and a dying fire in the parlor.

clyde smiles and says, "just wait a moment. i want to go change." he pretends to smell the air. "you're cooking?"
his mother nods full tilt and interlaces her fingers. "i found a cookbook! hurry and get out of those clothes." she kises him last then she goes into the kitchen.

clyde stops smiling. he goes upstairs and into his bedroom. the door clicks shut and clyde stands in the middle of the room. his clothes start to come off. his leather jacket droops off his shoulders and leaks to the wood floor. his fingers intertwine between the locks and tresses. they travel down, down to his belt. the skin and nails of his fingers tip on the hide of the belt to scrape it out the loops of his jeans; the belt cracks to the floor. clyde licks his lips and part, curling up to a smile. the jean buttons are undone and the zipper is slicked down.

clyde breathes and his hands cover his face. the eyes are watching and clyde loves it.