Categories > Original > Drama
The end of the cigarette burned bright, a red dot in the dark when he breathed in the smoke. His eyes were closed, his head rested against the wall, arm propped up on his bent knee. A stream of smoke escaped between his parted lips. When he lifted the burning cigarette once more, I could see the red of his knuckles and the blood on the ring he wore.
I could smell the cigarette when the scent wafted to me across the room. I sat on the floor as well, touching my face absentmindedly as I watched his every move. I knew I shouldn’t touch the broken skin, I knew it would only get infected if I did, but somehow it felt the right thing to do. I gently tapped my temple with a finger, wondering how much of purple skin I’d need to cover up the next day. It hurt when I touched my temple, and I lowered my hands slowly and cautiously.
His eyes opened and he looked at me. Such emotion in his eyes, but I saw a storm passing. He was calm. His muscles were no longer tense and flexed, his shoulders were relaxed and he no longer wore a frown on his face. But he didn’t smile either. That didn’t worry me, because I saw he was finally placid. I saw the apple on his throat move as he swallowed hard, and I felt remorse when I noticed the red scratch marks on his neck and shoulder.
He rose from the floor. Last drag from his cigarette as he walked across the room to me. He stopped, stood over me, towering above my hunched form, and I wondered if I looked as small to him as he looked large to me. But his eyes left me, and we both watched as he crushed the remaining of his cigarette on the ashtray, stifling the burn. Our eyes met again, and suddenly I saw it, that one last spark in his eyes, telling me that we weren’t finished. His body remained relaxed, but the force with which he grabbed my arm and pulled me up was incredible. I didn’t resist, out of fatigue or out of guilt. But I followed stumbling on his path as he led me to the bedroom we shared.
Our bed was unmade and messy with dirty clothes on the floor and empty bottles and cans lined up, stacked up on every surface. The ashtray on the table beside the bed was half full, and would need an emptying and a wash very soon. These were the things I concentrated on when he laid me down on the bed. The dirty clothes needed a wash as well, and I wondered if I should just wash them all at once instead of sorting them out first. This was what I thought about when he stripped me from my useless armor and entered me. I tried to count all the bottles and cans in the room, trying to figure out how much money I’d get for them at the store, and I tried to decide if I could take them away all at once. This was what kept me occupied when he came to a finish and left me.
I felt coldness when he went to his own spot on the bed and reached over to the table for another cigarette and a lighter. To keep myself warm, I grabbed a blanket from the floor and laid back down with it, feeling a soreness on my back when I moved.
Comforting silence reigned as he finally fell into a steady sleep and I was left perfectly alone to lick my wounds, away from his cold, judging stare.
I could smell the cigarette when the scent wafted to me across the room. I sat on the floor as well, touching my face absentmindedly as I watched his every move. I knew I shouldn’t touch the broken skin, I knew it would only get infected if I did, but somehow it felt the right thing to do. I gently tapped my temple with a finger, wondering how much of purple skin I’d need to cover up the next day. It hurt when I touched my temple, and I lowered my hands slowly and cautiously.
His eyes opened and he looked at me. Such emotion in his eyes, but I saw a storm passing. He was calm. His muscles were no longer tense and flexed, his shoulders were relaxed and he no longer wore a frown on his face. But he didn’t smile either. That didn’t worry me, because I saw he was finally placid. I saw the apple on his throat move as he swallowed hard, and I felt remorse when I noticed the red scratch marks on his neck and shoulder.
He rose from the floor. Last drag from his cigarette as he walked across the room to me. He stopped, stood over me, towering above my hunched form, and I wondered if I looked as small to him as he looked large to me. But his eyes left me, and we both watched as he crushed the remaining of his cigarette on the ashtray, stifling the burn. Our eyes met again, and suddenly I saw it, that one last spark in his eyes, telling me that we weren’t finished. His body remained relaxed, but the force with which he grabbed my arm and pulled me up was incredible. I didn’t resist, out of fatigue or out of guilt. But I followed stumbling on his path as he led me to the bedroom we shared.
Our bed was unmade and messy with dirty clothes on the floor and empty bottles and cans lined up, stacked up on every surface. The ashtray on the table beside the bed was half full, and would need an emptying and a wash very soon. These were the things I concentrated on when he laid me down on the bed. The dirty clothes needed a wash as well, and I wondered if I should just wash them all at once instead of sorting them out first. This was what I thought about when he stripped me from my useless armor and entered me. I tried to count all the bottles and cans in the room, trying to figure out how much money I’d get for them at the store, and I tried to decide if I could take them away all at once. This was what kept me occupied when he came to a finish and left me.
I felt coldness when he went to his own spot on the bed and reached over to the table for another cigarette and a lighter. To keep myself warm, I grabbed a blanket from the floor and laid back down with it, feeling a soreness on my back when I moved.
Comforting silence reigned as he finally fell into a steady sleep and I was left perfectly alone to lick my wounds, away from his cold, judging stare.
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