Needles Made of Ash
Smoke
Cold green eyes followed the ashes as they silently fell to the hard wood floor beside her feet. One by one the flakes of grey and black swirled into shapes that seemed so pretty coming from a stick of nastiness. Nimble delicate fingers brought the slender white stick back up to purple and blue gashed lips that, once a long time ago, held a light pink hue of healthiness. Plump lips started to pull the deadly wisps of air from the stick.
As the woman sat with the smoke surrounding her, she glazed through the fog to see the glass shards that littered all over the floor of her bedroom. Glass of a beautiful vase her mother once owned now serving as a master art piece of hell. She felt herself sneer at the thought, “Nothing beautiful to see here.”
More ashes meet the floor.
Sounds of the master clock downstairs wafted through the door, and filled the silent room with its chimes. The woman began to pull smoke from the cigarette in sync with the chimes. The woman thought, for a split second, that the clock seemed to speed up the chimes as if it was trying to out win the smoke. She mused to herself that the clock would never be the winner.
She has known the tricks of smoke too long.
Flashes of earlier that night came crashing back into her blonde covered head. Hints of images she rather let fall to the floor with the ash and glass. Once again she meets the pictures in her head. Playing like one of those horrible black & white films from the 50’s. No music or sound in the background to help with the scene. Just pictures and images forming a low-budget movie she has acted in too many times.
Why they always picked the kitchen was anyone’s guess. She always thought it was probably because they hoped the scent of food he had burnt earlier, would mask the scent of their shame. He would lean across the table and start to whisper to her in a rush the same words every time, “I love you baby-doll. See you on the other side.” Then he would do his infamous wink she loved so much, and grip a needle he would in no time plunge into their skin.
This is where the woman was supposed to get her golden Oscar award for ‘Best new lead-female drama’. That’s all it was, a Lifetime drama that never seemed to know when the credits should start rolling. But damn could they put on an amazing show for the crowd of plates and forks. He would begin the opening act by screaming from the top of his lungs how much he loved her, and then slowly start to lower his voice after each word while glazing into her eyes. She would reply by rolling her eyes and telling him how silly he was acting, somehow forgetting the drugs was making him this way, and then commence to going upstairs.
The destination of her high always landed the woman in the middle of the bed somehow.
He would then precede the next part of the sketch, which was to get raging mad at her response and follow her up the stairs into the room. Then the climax begins to form a horrible peak the lady knew too well. Hands gripping onto greasy hair, using it as a whip to crash her into anything, this time the dresser. The vase meets the floor. She starts to fill the blood form in her mouth as she picks herself off the dresser. She spits the blood out unto a big random glass shard that was sheathed into her hand. The woman then turns around and grins at him.
“Love you baby” She whispers with excitement. His face empties of the rage and fills with happiness.
“Love you more doll.”
Then they, as any other time this movie plays, would meet in the middle of whatever was littering the floor at the time and smash their lips together. Clashing bodies together until one or the other submits to a game only the broken couple seemed to know the rules of. Nothing but adrenaline and lust clouding them until the fatigue forces them to submit to dreamless sleep.
Then the movie gets put on replay the next night, incase somehow their love for each other missed it the first twenty odd times it had aired. It then proceeds to become a classic only they are aware of. A classic that sits on a shelf the couple has titled love.
The woman sneers once again as the images floats away from her mind with the last of the smoke and chimes. She looks down at the bud that’s left in her hand, and with a flick of her fingers it lands on the floor with the rest of the mess she refuses to pick up.
As the woman sat with the smoke surrounding her, she glazed through the fog to see the glass shards that littered all over the floor of her bedroom. Glass of a beautiful vase her mother once owned now serving as a master art piece of hell. She felt herself sneer at the thought, “Nothing beautiful to see here.”
More ashes meet the floor.
Sounds of the master clock downstairs wafted through the door, and filled the silent room with its chimes. The woman began to pull smoke from the cigarette in sync with the chimes. The woman thought, for a split second, that the clock seemed to speed up the chimes as if it was trying to out win the smoke. She mused to herself that the clock would never be the winner.
She has known the tricks of smoke too long.
Flashes of earlier that night came crashing back into her blonde covered head. Hints of images she rather let fall to the floor with the ash and glass. Once again she meets the pictures in her head. Playing like one of those horrible black & white films from the 50’s. No music or sound in the background to help with the scene. Just pictures and images forming a low-budget movie she has acted in too many times.
Why they always picked the kitchen was anyone’s guess. She always thought it was probably because they hoped the scent of food he had burnt earlier, would mask the scent of their shame. He would lean across the table and start to whisper to her in a rush the same words every time, “I love you baby-doll. See you on the other side.” Then he would do his infamous wink she loved so much, and grip a needle he would in no time plunge into their skin.
This is where the woman was supposed to get her golden Oscar award for ‘Best new lead-female drama’. That’s all it was, a Lifetime drama that never seemed to know when the credits should start rolling. But damn could they put on an amazing show for the crowd of plates and forks. He would begin the opening act by screaming from the top of his lungs how much he loved her, and then slowly start to lower his voice after each word while glazing into her eyes. She would reply by rolling her eyes and telling him how silly he was acting, somehow forgetting the drugs was making him this way, and then commence to going upstairs.
The destination of her high always landed the woman in the middle of the bed somehow.
He would then precede the next part of the sketch, which was to get raging mad at her response and follow her up the stairs into the room. Then the climax begins to form a horrible peak the lady knew too well. Hands gripping onto greasy hair, using it as a whip to crash her into anything, this time the dresser. The vase meets the floor. She starts to fill the blood form in her mouth as she picks herself off the dresser. She spits the blood out unto a big random glass shard that was sheathed into her hand. The woman then turns around and grins at him.
“Love you baby” She whispers with excitement. His face empties of the rage and fills with happiness.
“Love you more doll.”
Then they, as any other time this movie plays, would meet in the middle of whatever was littering the floor at the time and smash their lips together. Clashing bodies together until one or the other submits to a game only the broken couple seemed to know the rules of. Nothing but adrenaline and lust clouding them until the fatigue forces them to submit to dreamless sleep.
Then the movie gets put on replay the next night, incase somehow their love for each other missed it the first twenty odd times it had aired. It then proceeds to become a classic only they are aware of. A classic that sits on a shelf the couple has titled love.
The woman sneers once again as the images floats away from her mind with the last of the smoke and chimes. She looks down at the bud that’s left in her hand, and with a flick of her fingers it lands on the floor with the rest of the mess she refuses to pick up.