Spinning
The End
I saw him. My feet broke their steady rhythm against the hard concrete of the back alley's cracked streets.
I did not know how I got to this corner of town, neither did I care. I was just walking; concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, listening to the thump as each foot impacted with the ground, all the time keeping my head ducked into my scarf to protect myself from the onslaught of heavy rain that stung my cheeks and flicked against each pore of exposed skin.
It's difficult to say what I was thinking about. These days my mind was full of blanks. Sometimes people would smile tentatively with patronising sympathy at me from across the street but I could not grasp their emotion. I felt nothing. The inside of my brain was lined with canvases of opaque, vague sketches, nothing felt real; I could not touch the past and touching it physcologically was too much to handle.
He was facing the opposite way to me, smoking slowly, inhaling, blowing rings of exhalation around his neatly clothed body. The damp weather didn't effect his stance, he still stood straight, his posture too confident for a murderer. He finished his cigarette and dropped it onto the glistening pavement. I stood underneath my street lamp watching him, the rain falling as heavy glitter from above my head. He did not watch me; he did not even notice I was there. Nobody notices I am here. Nothing notices me. I am nothing.
I am like the space between your fingers, the fourty-seventh second of a minute, the grain of sand that is whisked away by the weakest breeze. I am the things you never notice, the things you don't really care about, the things that don't matter. And I am stood here on this street on the corner of the darkest alley in town and I only have two options. I grasp the handle of the knife in my pocket.
My hair sticks to my face, it is soaked from the torrent. I slide my hand across my forehead to improve my vision, but the glare from the streetlight is still reflecting into my irises.
He turns. He's seen me. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear the words. He is walking across the street. I feel nothing. I am nothing.
He is facing me. I know what he has done, he has taken everything I used to have, everything that used to mean something to me, everything that was anything, everything that made me something. Rose.
He is laughing. I don't like his laugh. I notice the rain caught on his eyelashes, the flash of light the street lamp has cast across his face. I notice a hole in the collar of his jacket, a cigarette burn; it's charred around the edges, the brown cord fading into shades of the most brilliant black. The street light is hurting my eyes.
I am squinting as I push the knife into his stomach. I still don't feel anything. I wrench the knife out as he swears at me, but I push it in again. I catch a glimpse of my hands, stained with blood, the dark liquid red running through the creases of my skin. I feel nothing. It's like I'm watching a film.
The universe is like a film, I think to myself. And what is another life? A plot twist? Or just another body in a battle scene?
I did not know how I got to this corner of town, neither did I care. I was just walking; concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, listening to the thump as each foot impacted with the ground, all the time keeping my head ducked into my scarf to protect myself from the onslaught of heavy rain that stung my cheeks and flicked against each pore of exposed skin.
It's difficult to say what I was thinking about. These days my mind was full of blanks. Sometimes people would smile tentatively with patronising sympathy at me from across the street but I could not grasp their emotion. I felt nothing. The inside of my brain was lined with canvases of opaque, vague sketches, nothing felt real; I could not touch the past and touching it physcologically was too much to handle.
He was facing the opposite way to me, smoking slowly, inhaling, blowing rings of exhalation around his neatly clothed body. The damp weather didn't effect his stance, he still stood straight, his posture too confident for a murderer. He finished his cigarette and dropped it onto the glistening pavement. I stood underneath my street lamp watching him, the rain falling as heavy glitter from above my head. He did not watch me; he did not even notice I was there. Nobody notices I am here. Nothing notices me. I am nothing.
I am like the space between your fingers, the fourty-seventh second of a minute, the grain of sand that is whisked away by the weakest breeze. I am the things you never notice, the things you don't really care about, the things that don't matter. And I am stood here on this street on the corner of the darkest alley in town and I only have two options. I grasp the handle of the knife in my pocket.
My hair sticks to my face, it is soaked from the torrent. I slide my hand across my forehead to improve my vision, but the glare from the streetlight is still reflecting into my irises.
He turns. He's seen me. His mouth is moving, but I can't hear the words. He is walking across the street. I feel nothing. I am nothing.
He is facing me. I know what he has done, he has taken everything I used to have, everything that used to mean something to me, everything that was anything, everything that made me something. Rose.
He is laughing. I don't like his laugh. I notice the rain caught on his eyelashes, the flash of light the street lamp has cast across his face. I notice a hole in the collar of his jacket, a cigarette burn; it's charred around the edges, the brown cord fading into shades of the most brilliant black. The street light is hurting my eyes.
I am squinting as I push the knife into his stomach. I still don't feel anything. I wrench the knife out as he swears at me, but I push it in again. I catch a glimpse of my hands, stained with blood, the dark liquid red running through the creases of my skin. I feel nothing. It's like I'm watching a film.
The universe is like a film, I think to myself. And what is another life? A plot twist? Or just another body in a battle scene?