Very much still a work-in-progress. Any feedback much appreciated.
Cut coloured glass distorted forms of people pacing past. Everyone’s got somewhere to be – except me. The sour smell of last night’s beer and this morning’s bleach made it a comfortable start to the week. Weak eyes protected from light skies in a dark bar, waiting for the night. Weeks of time passing all merged into one. The 5/2 split of days to live is just a social construct to instigate when you’re allowed to have fun. Flowers wilted, my head tilted. Bubbles fought past their brothers to congregate with others, in foam topping the beer I sipped alone. Nothing was happening. Nothing ever happened. On the precipice of my familiar black hole of despair I was pulled back by a soft, wet cracking from behind. I turned around, trying not to be too loud because I liked this corner with its dim, protective shroud. In the middle of the floor was a gelatinous puddle, spreading slowly outwards, carrying with it brittle shards of pale shell.
There was no indication of where the egg had fallen from; the silence echoed around the empty bar, broken only by the syncopated pit-a-pat of leaky taps. The old Landlady shuffled out from the back room and sighed with her back to me, reached under the bar for a cloth and came out towards the oozing shape. I felt bad watching her and not helping. Eggs are especially annoying to clean up, I thought, as I watched her push the now dusty gloop around – only succeeding in making more of a mess.
Flaming destruction, replicating biblical visions caught my attention on the muted television. Somewhere, over there – more bombs to clean up the mess of the last set, no doubt. I sighed inwardly and looked down at the empty page in front of me – so many things happening and nothing to write about.
Everything happened and then it was done. Immediately he squeezed two sets of teeth onto his tongue and longed to suck the words back into selfish lungs. She gaped at him, struck dumb. The light inside her eyes distinguished, as he wished she wouldn’t cry. And she didn’t. She had never managed to keep her feelings hidden, all she wanted was to rid them and he never had the time to give them.
She stood over the shopping bags, her body sagged and she stumbled to a chair. His mind raced to search for ways to make this OK. Far away he heard kids play, it was only just the middle of their day.
Breaking the silence, avoiding the trap she asked,
‘you’re still not happy, Mark?’
‘I meant it as a joke,’ he choked, every excuse and even the truth getting caught in his throat. In all honesty, his mind was messy. The daily grind was too much stress, she was meant to relieve it and pander to his need for freedom. But that wasn’t fair and he knew it, he didn’t want her to see him through it, he’d much prefer to pretend it wasn’t there. The dark cloud of despair; a glitch in himself only he could repair.
‘I can’t do this. The first time I met you I knew this, but I didn’t want it to be true I wished. But I can’t keep pouring love into the hole in your soul, for it to stagnate and mould.’