Shorts Story
Beer Bottles And Broken Hearts
The slamming of the door frightened the doziness from my eyes. The chiming of the clock had ticked him off again. The sound of heavy foot steps could be heard from miles high. I reached for my radio dial not knowing whether to shun it into silence or sip it louder so I could live longer in this facade of perfection. Without my consent my hands reached over and turned it down to a feather like hush. His voice weaved into the carpets and disguised itself as goose bumps on my skin. The sobs and screams held so much emotion the images of what went on just below were freshly branded into my eyes. Another day to mark on the calendar. They did this often. Below. When they thought no one could hear our see their secrets. But everyone hears our secrets, knows our deepest fears, our vices. I try to concentrate on my bed sheets. Try hard not to be an everyone. Pixels replace the bed sheets, but the voice remained the same. It so easily found its way into my door. Unwelcome. The sound of pins dropping becomes unbearable. I take a step off my bed. My haven. Onto the cold floor built on pain and misery. One step, two step, three step, breathe. Did I really want to hear what was going on? See all the pain in her eyes as she lifted her lids and the anger in his cheeks? Oblivious to my constraints my feet carried me through my door. The safe guard was down. I was part of the game now; just a pawn. Slowly, I descended down the stairs. All movement seized, and I knelt down in between two graves and watched the scene below. Her face I could not see, yet all her pain I could read. The house shattered with one last slam of the door. Expressions matching the squealing moon, Gear put in reverse head in hands soaking up an eternity of salt watching from a staircase. Home sweet home.
The slamming of the door frightened the doziness from my eyes. The chiming of the clock had ticked him off again. The sound of heavy foot steps could be heard from miles high. I reached for my radio dial not knowing whether to shun it into silence or sip it louder so I could live longer in this facade of perfection. Without my consent my hands reached over and turned it down to a feather like hush. His voice weaved into the carpets and disguised itself as goose bumps on my skin. The sobs and screams held so much emotion the images of what went on just below were freshly branded into my eyes. Another day to mark on the calendar. They did this often. Below. When they thought no one could hear our see their secrets. But everyone hears our secrets, knows our deepest fears, our vices. I try to concentrate on my bed sheets. Try hard not to be an everyone. Pixels replace the bed sheets, but the voice remained the same. It so easily found its way into my door. Unwelcome. The sound of pins dropping becomes unbearable. I take a step off my bed. My haven. Onto the cold floor built on pain and misery. One step, two step, three step, breathe. Did I really want to hear what was going on? See all the pain in her eyes as she lifted her lids and the anger in his cheeks? Oblivious to my constraints my feet carried me through my door. The safe guard was down. I was part of the game now; just a pawn. Slowly, I descended down the stairs. All movement seized, and I knelt down in between two graves and watched the scene below. Her face I could not see, yet all her pain I could read. The house shattered with one last slam of the door. Expressions matching the squealing moon, Gear put in reverse head in hands soaking up an eternity of salt watching from a staircase. Home sweet home.