There was never

There was never a bottle of Oban.

The music box–

He threw a coffee cup against the wall. “GodDAMNIT!”

He wanted, more than anything, to make sure he was stable, to keep her safe.

He walked in the door and breathed in the scent of eggs frying with Chinese food.

He walked in the door and peeled himself out of his shredded, bloody clothing.

He walked in the door, eyes almost red, jaw set.

Everything held the scent of a fresh shower, and peach shampoo.

The army men guarded the milk in the fridge. The carton still had the skull and crossbones on it.

He loved her. He may never have said it.

The music box–

He opened the window and let her in, one hand against the glass as she sang on the fire escape, wild hair blowing about in the night wind.

There was never a bottle of Tamdhu.

He made eggs in the pan, with bacon fat and sardines.

He walked in the door and heard the raven’s voice on the ansafone.

He crouched amidst the rubble, gloves off, the world smoking around him, his red eyes betraying his status as weapon.

The music box–

He walked in the door holding the black block that made the back of his tongue ache for bad whisky, and eyes see blood where it isn’t.

He walked in the door and put the consciousness he was holding in the microwave, turned it on high, and waited for it to explode into pink, strawberry-scented plastic.

There was never a bottle of Fiddich ’37.

The answering machine was never destroyed.

The music box is still playing somewhere, where time is blue, and silence is cold and thick, and there is yarn on the stairs.

And a cat in the freezer.


2 responses to “There was never

  1. Fantastic. The incremental repetition carries the reader along to
    a place we all know
    where time is gone
    and space has stopped.

    I was a scotch drinker once, as well….
    the music box is still playing.

    Rich. Wonderful. And heartfelt.


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