May 25, 2010

• Her Splintered Heart

  A bottle of whiskey was in front of her. A shot. The table she sat at was faded with age, scars in the wood. With shaky hand and breath she downed the shot and poured another. The drink burned her throat down to her stomach. She welcomed it with open arms.

  The mascara and eyeliner were a day old on her weary face. She didn’t bother wiping the tears away. The silent tears throbbing down her cheeks. They burned her worse than the whiskey. She turned the shot glass around and around with her fingers. The whiskey half gone already in the bottle.

  Her small frame slumped in the rickety chair, the air so humid you could cut it with a knife. She could barely feel it. All she could feel was her splintered heart. She idly wondered why she bothered with the shot glass. Why not drink from the bottle? She finally took the shot and poured one more. One for my baby, and one more for the road.

  It was getting dark outside. The crickets and frogs started singing. The birds were talking. Shot after shot. It wasn’t as quiet as everyone makes loneliness sound. It was fucking loud in the silence. Time passed, the argument long done and the man long gone.

  She wanted to destroy everything, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. She could only drink and cry desolate, silent tears.

  —–

  It’s been awhile since I’ve written some fiction. What do you think? I think it’s kind of terrible.

  • 6:41 pm
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