Red numbers burn 4:04 into the darkness. Moments later, they transform their identity and moan 5:16. Work begins in three hours and forty-four minutes; three hours and forty-three minutes.
An uninviting breeze blows through the filmy fabric, interrupting her weary gaze. Tiny defined bumps form on top of her ashen skin. Her bare feet wilt from the edge of the bed as she sits above the bottle of poison that she has since neutralized.
He should have stumbled through the door by now.
Draping a blanket around her curved shoulders, she meekly makes her way to the next room. For a fleeting moment, she permits herself to contemplate her existence. She wonders how she ever succumbed to this.
Just outside, a vehicle screeches to a halt. Music and muffled voices are heard with some effort. A woman’s laughter penetrates the air. The screen door clicks gingerly behind her as she leans over the paint chipped railing hoping to hear a little more. It is him. He is okay.
Instinctively, she returns to the bed and pretends to be asleep.
With difficulty, the apartment door opens and closes. Keys hit the parquet floor with a familiar clatter. The stagger to the bedroom is clumsy and piercing. She lies perfectly still with fallen eyelids.
It is quiet again, but this time the silence is too loud.
She seals her eyes tight and comforts herself with false hope of tomorrow.
january 12, 2012
(this is not a poem, it is a postcard story I had written for a writing project. Was wondering if anyone had any thoughts about it and/or constructive critisim. Did it evoke feeling? Thanks for checking in:)