He smiled in the way a child would; a mixture of bashfulness and wanting. Sukey brushed back a feather of hair and poured him another drink. Always two drinks. Never a visit longer than an hour.
Her eyes glanced the clock. The hour was nearly over.
Ink swirls from my veins in a manganese flood that scores the page and tears the paper. I wish I could write it better, but the words burn and flail in my mind, dying to embers and ash if I don’t get them out fast enough.
And I have to get them out.
He watches from across the desk as my eyes melt with gold. The pen shakes in my hand, blurring words and soul. I grit my teeth and continue. This is the only way to make it stop. The only way to salve the voices.
Charcoal bags. She flushed her face with ice cold water but they didn’t shift away. Not make up, then; just lack of sleep.
Silver gleamed in sawn-off light. She sluiced the blade in the icy torrent, destroying the evidence beneath the tap. The water ran red before paling as it circled the plug hole. It was important to keep your instruments clean.
Towel on metal rubbed away the damp markers until water stains were non-existent. A slip and her thumb wept crimson, lips surrounding the wound to stem the flow. She put the weapon away. Carefully concealed, it was more useful than any other ally.
Damp patches blotted the bitumen, gathering in number until the tarmac was sodden. He waited until the rain was at its heaviest to load the car. The old pickup wheeled and wretched as the burdened sheets were slung inside, dripping wet.
He paused before packing away the tailgate, allowing his eyes to absorb the blood soaked linen. It was going to be a long drive. The discordant jangle of keys rattled in his ear as they turned in the door.
The air in the car was clammy.
Continue reading “Dicey Flash Fiction: Week Four”
