Last Twist
A random blurb/drabble from nothing.
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Her fingers danced nervously along the edge of the desk, trembling slightly as they skirted past the obstacles in their way. A sewing needle. A pen. A protractor. A plastic bottle of expired painkillers. The TV blared distantly off to her right, but the sound and feel of her heartbeat drowned it out for the most part. If she closed her eyes she could imagine that everything was silent and that her arm was not burning. She couldn't maintain the illusion with her eyes open, though; the red welt on her forearm negated the comfortable lie.
But welt don't leave scars. Not visible ones, at least.
"I don't want to go out." Her voice was louder than her heartbeat, but it still got lost under the TV.
Predictably, the two dimensional man on the appliance did not react.
For a brief moment she considered crawling under her desk because it seemed like it would be a damned sight better than just sitting there in the open, but she couldn't make herself move. She was too tired. So tired. Always tired. The pendant hanging at her throat weighed her down and made it harder to breathe. Her finger twitched towards the sewing needle and her heartbeat pounded in her head. She could feel the pulse in the bridge of her nose.
Don't want to go out.
But the tea was cold now and she'd need more, despite the lump in her throat that she couldn't quite swallow. The needle rolled when a twitching finger touched it, turning over and over again as though trying to retreat. Without a conscious thought, her right hand hand snapped out and caught the escapee, a quite tap breaking the otherwise stable noise level in the room as the sharpened bit of metal suddenly stopped, trapped beneath two fingers and the smooth, over-dusted surface of the desk.
She could feel it pressing into her skin and stared down at her captive. It didn't feel like much of anything at all.
Like nothing at all.
Her stomach roiled and her head rebelled as the pounding of her heart resumed it's heavy staccato beat.
Just breathe.
Shaking, she lifted her fingers away from the needle and shoved it away with undue violence. Her head fell heavily to the desk, landing with a dull sound, and anxious, fluttering hands gripped at her hair and tugged in quiet desperation.
The tea was cold.
The needle was still and did not move from where she'd pushed it.
The television continued to chatter in its callous, uncaring way--an accurate two-dimensional allegory of her two-dimensional life.
She sighed shakily and allowed herself to slide out of her chair so that she could curl up in the cramped space below her desk and fixate on the burning welt she'd made earlier. There was no grace in it--nothing but disgust and trembling and muffled weeping. But it was still better than the alternative, she supposed.
Nearly anything was better than those kinds of alternatives. Her arm burned and she clutched at the pendant at her neck and cried softly.
"I was much further out than you thought, And not waving but drowning."
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Her fingers danced nervously along the edge of the desk, trembling slightly as they skirted past the obstacles in their way. A sewing needle. A pen. A protractor. A plastic bottle of expired painkillers. The TV blared distantly off to her right, but the sound and feel of her heartbeat drowned it out for the most part. If she closed her eyes she could imagine that everything was silent and that her arm was not burning. She couldn't maintain the illusion with her eyes open, though; the red welt on her forearm negated the comfortable lie.
But welt don't leave scars. Not visible ones, at least.
"I don't want to go out." Her voice was louder than her heartbeat, but it still got lost under the TV.
Predictably, the two dimensional man on the appliance did not react.
For a brief moment she considered crawling under her desk because it seemed like it would be a damned sight better than just sitting there in the open, but she couldn't make herself move. She was too tired. So tired. Always tired. The pendant hanging at her throat weighed her down and made it harder to breathe. Her finger twitched towards the sewing needle and her heartbeat pounded in her head. She could feel the pulse in the bridge of her nose.
Don't want to go out.
But the tea was cold now and she'd need more, despite the lump in her throat that she couldn't quite swallow. The needle rolled when a twitching finger touched it, turning over and over again as though trying to retreat. Without a conscious thought, her right hand hand snapped out and caught the escapee, a quite tap breaking the otherwise stable noise level in the room as the sharpened bit of metal suddenly stopped, trapped beneath two fingers and the smooth, over-dusted surface of the desk.
She could feel it pressing into her skin and stared down at her captive. It didn't feel like much of anything at all.
Like nothing at all.
Her stomach roiled and her head rebelled as the pounding of her heart resumed it's heavy staccato beat.
Just breathe.
Shaking, she lifted her fingers away from the needle and shoved it away with undue violence. Her head fell heavily to the desk, landing with a dull sound, and anxious, fluttering hands gripped at her hair and tugged in quiet desperation.
The tea was cold.
The needle was still and did not move from where she'd pushed it.
The television continued to chatter in its callous, uncaring way--an accurate two-dimensional allegory of her two-dimensional life.
She sighed shakily and allowed herself to slide out of her chair so that she could curl up in the cramped space below her desk and fixate on the burning welt she'd made earlier. There was no grace in it--nothing but disgust and trembling and muffled weeping. But it was still better than the alternative, she supposed.
Nearly anything was better than those kinds of alternatives. Her arm burned and she clutched at the pendant at her neck and cried softly.
"I was much further out than you thought, And not waving but drowning."