Unable hands

The first thing anybody notices about her is her hands. Thick, vein filled hands. Hands covered to the knuckle in large and extravagant beaded rings. Those damn hands have the potential to ruin all your hopes and dreams, her little facade, or maybe even somebodies life. And everyday I have to look at those hands and think of how the possibilities were endless, until it came to her hands.
Voices, although they were hushed to just above a whisper, filled my ears as suddenly it felt like everything had come into focus. For a long time, it felt like I’d been trapped inside my own mind, but it was incapable of thinking; incapable of being aware of what was going on around me, besides staring down at my reflection in a fabulously decadent ring. Hazel eyes stair at me from a silver reflection, oozing like liquid gold. Red lips curve up in a smile only suitable for a model, about to get her picture taken. Flash, flash, flash. Teased up butter cream hair fill up the remaining of this “mirror”. This is me, queen of lies and deceit, living in the land of make believe where not everything is as real as it seems but we’re taught to turn a blind eye.
For a few moments, I couldn’t move and I could hardly string together enough words to make an actual sentence. The bodies between me are warm, too warm. Suffocating me, and making my Chanel dress stick to my skin in the most uncomfortable way. Their voices mumble and exit throughout my ears, and I’m listening but I’m not really hearing. The first movement I could make was a twitch of my fingers, then I curled my hand up into a tight fist. The voices grew silent with the flexing of my hand, but within the same second their voices raised much louder than before. Rumbling in my head, aching at my hangover and splitting me into reality.
I feel eyes burning into the back of my head, increasing the splitting pain and I turn. Pause. There she is, the exquisite and glorious Quinn. I won’t lie and say this is as real as it seems, because it is not. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. Perfection comes in human form with her. You know the type of girl; perfect blond hair and eyes like dark sea, tossing and turning and you can get lost in them and never come back. The American dream girl. She stare a hole right into me and back into the wall as if I am non existent, just blending into the cream colored walls of the coffee shop. The bags under her eyes no amount of concealer could really cover it all and it doesn’t look like she can muster the effort to try. As she lifts a cup of coffee to her lips, I wonder how many cups she has drank over the past few weeks. Avoiding sleep and ultimately avoiding her own realization that her number just might be up next. She continues to stair, as if she didn’t notice the two detectives who have seemingly tracked our every move since the death or our dearest Romeo.
She’s in that horrible stage of denial that I would later feel when I wasn’t who I am. She can still feel and hear and smell. Gunpowder and salty sea air floating through the open window to keep the body cool. Silenced. Romeo had be silenced.
At one point in my life, we were the same person. We knew what we wanted, and we knew how to get it. We had no shame, no morals, nothing but lovely personalities and looks everyone envied for. But this isn’t what it seems either. Quinn spent her whole life being angry on how her parents split up, and spent the remaining of her teenage years sleeping around and making sure she didn’t build up any lasting or worth while relationships. Until came Romeo, who is the star of this story, even from six feet under.
Quinn and I, we’re just the best supporting actresses fighting for our award and recognition for our play in this movie. Pause. Flash, flash, flash. Paste that smile on your face. And those two warm bodies between gawk at the exchange taking place between the two of us, and ask what it is to smile about, knowing that I more than likely will be spending the rest of my life in a square cell, floor to celling brick walls that smell of piss and 409, that makes you feel like your stomach has completely turned over. But I had plenty of time to get used to this. I had plenty of time to get used to the fact that I am harboring and encompassing the body of a murder. Later, this cell would be where the dreams started. Perhaps you know the kind? Where it so vivid you feel as if there is no possible way it could be created in your mind while your slumbering body is at ease. When these dreams started, it shook my whole life all the way down to the brick surroundings that have become my home. Gruesome dreams colored in the deepest shade of dark red; blood. Ear shattering screams, and the gurgle in a person’s throat as they take there final breath. I wonder if theres a cure for this, something psychiatric drugs or little bags of acid could fix. To undo the existence of a person, even for awhile.