Smoke little by little spilled from Maria’s pursed, red lips.
“You’re a fuck-up, John,” was the last thing she spoke before turning to face the door, dropping her cigarette on the parquet floor and leaving John nearly unconscious and as near death as he had ever been. The sheen of Maria’s dusky, brown hair was the last memory she would leave him.
He lay quietly: supine and motionless on the firm couch. His glassy eyes remained frozen under the beads of sweat on his brow, and the scars on his dangling arms told volumes of long, feather-light nights spent happier than this.
John’s thoughts were tangled from the years of abuse, where the control he once retained had been lost in a swirling and ever-receding sensation of paradise, but still, he knew that Maria was right. He was a fuck-up.
With that last conscious thought, sleep, or rather nothingness found John in his upper east side apartment over-looking the city, and with Maria’s departure he slipped from reality’s grasp.
To be continued…
Cormant Macgruder
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2 comments:
Insightful to the very least. The imagery is bold and intriguing. I especially enjoyed the superb and tactful use of meaningful profanity.
This is offensive communist excrement. I recommend counseling and good healthy "Anne of Green Gables" marathon to get you back on the right track.
With concern and disdain,
Your Mom
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