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FistsAndUnhappiness
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FistsAndUnhappiness
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roasted
6:34 pm. There’s a storm outside when I think of you. I’m roasting chestnuts, your favourite, and I wonder if you’ll be knocking on my door tonight even though I know there’s a higher chance of the storm creeping in, taking off it’s shoes and sitting quietly with me. Well done, the raging weather is less of an arse than you. 9:04 pm. The rain is falling faster than someone who decided they weren’t enough and I find my thoughts drifting towards you again. The plate of chestnuts dusted with icing, now empty, sits in front of me. Fingerprints in the sugar like footsteps in snow, leading you away from me. Thunder rumbles and so does the rage when I think of your crooked teeth and your smile and your hands and your voice. I pray to the Gods that the rain will wash away all thought of you and think of the shrine at the base of our mountain, my mountain. Where you no longer take me with a basket filled with my favourite food, and of course your sugared chestnuts, the sickly sweet layer hiding the bitter taste underneath; a perfect metaphor for you. 12:18 am. The rain stops, the clouds recede, and as I drift off to sleep I do not dream of mountain walks, I do not dream of roasted chestnuts, nor do I dream of you. The storm is over and so are we.
swerve
Hands at ten and two. Ignition on, handbrake off. Move into first gear then accelerate, now drive. 2:03 am. 27/11/16. Late night or early morning but the sounds are asleep, my head is quiet. There are no other cars on this quiet road, just the flicker of cat’s eyes and fireflies in the road, like willow the wisps; guiding me, leading me astray. Flashes from streetlights rush past, and I see her. Flash. Her laid in bed, hands in mine, legs entwined. Flash. Her across the table, smiling down at her food. Flash. Her reading with steaming tea in hand, feet up on a chair. Flash. Her- Flash. -screaming. Flash. Black. - See the drop up ahead. Accelerate. Accelerate. Pull the steering wheel.