Thursday, October 8, 2009

Death Letter

One of those big, stupid houses where everything echoes. Someone is showering. The hot water heater comes on. Pipes shudder. A bar of soap falls with a thud. A whining in the wall. Splashing and rinsing. Something else. Rustling blinds in the kitchen. The first tingle is a cheat.

A car pulls into the driveway. Someone kills the ignition. The engine settles. A slight ticking. The driver's side door clicks shut. An expensive door. Slight footfalls on the macadam. Nearby a big dog growls. The footfalls stop. Again, a low growl. A calm shushing. Something thrown. Soft. Quiet. The footfalls resume. On grass this time. Fancy shoes. Totally expected.

Overhead a small plane. Wind hanging up in the white pine for a moment. Hey poot, where's the bloody moon?

The water stops running. Wet feet slap tile. A towel slips off its hook. A drawer slides open. Someone is rummaging among the bottles and tubes.
Shite out loud. The drawer slammed shut. Wiping the mirror. A purple shiner. The actual eye swollen shut. The inside of the lower lip. A fresh trickle of blood. Two teeth loose. Effin bastard rattled my cage. A bottle falls into the sink. Shatters. This is entertainment, by the way. Fresh blood hah hah hah.

Fine leather soles scraping against pebbles. Stopped.
I'm a loose cannon. Metal threads turning into metal grooves. Such soft screwing. An American flag snaps against itself. A brief gust. That got your attention didn't it, poot?

The bathroom door opens. A sharp cough followed by labored breathing. No. Sobbing.
My effin life out loud. You know, this is my life hah hah hah. Irony.

Sobbing. Definitely coming from inside the house.
Gotta get this shite over with. A key turns in its lock. Click. The big door slowly turning on its hinges. One low rasp halfway through the arc. Okay, say it: it seems like the whole house is sobbing. Heaving sobs coming from the hallway upstairs. Tiptoeing across the wood floor. Two deep breaths. Ascending. The third stair groans. Quick now. Loud footsteps, the swish of an overcoat. One grievous inhalation. One short second of silence. Two clicks, two muted reports. Quite a sight. Hey poot, tell me, how does it feel to deliver the death letter?

No comments:

Post a Comment