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Monday, March 16, 2009

Incredibly Short Story?

Thing is, she never saw it coming.


The light in her bedroom was dim at best, not at all adequate to show the shadows of some violent intruder. Thing is, she liked the dark, liked the idea that anything could be hiding around the corner at any given moment. A morbid and terribly sad little girl who sat in the dark and embroidered the symbols of broken angst all over her clothes. She'd thread red stars and pentagrams into her jeans in the incredibly dimly lit room.


Thing is, she didn't mind being alone.


She'd twist the thread through the needle, and she'd rope the material together. One stitch after the other, just turning and colliding. Static Electricity. Twist and meld twist and thread. Static static static. It's just the tedious process that brings her comfort. She doesn't really care how she looks, at least not materially. She wanted to look as tortured as possible to everyone that looked her in the eye. Clothes didn't matter, they were just one way to mark tedium with process. Thread the string, string the thread, static electricity. Live entertainment.


She wanted to look tortured to everyone that ever saw her and this comforted her. The pity pity pity. If she could be the best martyr, she would get the best pity would get the best satisfaction would be able to cry for purpose. Tedium to process, crying for pity. So every night, in her dark little room, carefully stitching. She liked the dark because it hid things just right, and you could never see a mighty intruder standing in the corner, licking his lips.


Thing is, she never saw it coming.


Anyone watching, would think that at any given moment she might stop her threading, her tearful tearful threading and take the needle to her wrist She'd draw a thin red thread of deep crimson blood from her arm to drape across the floor with the mess of tears that she'd left there already. She wasn't about to do this though, thing is, she's a martyr. Pain would be too much for her, she doesn't care how she looks materially, just emotionally. Sunken eyes from a dark room and too many tears.


You'd think there would be some sad depressing foreboding music playing in the background, but there was none. Just silence in that dark little room.


Thing is, she threaded by candle light because there was no electricity.


So there she'd sit, sit sit perch. It was her spot to practice her crying, to sink her shallow eyes more deeply into her skull. She'd keep the one window closed and draped over because it was easier to concentrate. Easier to see the blood red stitches she made in her jeans, in her clothes. Lines that could very well be stains from her own blood. Don't forget though, she's a martyr, she doesn't harbour pain that way.

No blood at all really, just one girl in a dark room, hands weaving an intricate pattern. Stars and demons. Stitch over stitch. Thread and static static static.

Thing is, she didn't even see it coming.

Murphy's law states that the absolute worst possible situation will come to fruition in all cases that one fritters away time at worrying.

Thing is, the only thing a martyr does is worry.

Boyle's law states that as the volume of a system decreases, the pressure of any gas contained in the system will significantly increase. The density of the system will increase.

Thing, is she never saw it coming.

With one last tear, one last look at the pair of jeans she'd just finished, she began to think that it might not be worth it. When a martyr thinks, they often doubt. She thought about how she just very well may be able to forget all of this. She had will power enough to shut the world out, maybe it was time to let them back in. To have the will to finally talk to some one about all of these terrible terrible tears.

Thing is, sometimes it's too late.

So she folds up the pants she's been embroidering and throws them aside. It's time to finally stand up for herself and get on with her life.

Thing is, the house had been abandoned for about three weeks now.

With her hands on the floor to sturdy her ascent, the thin and frail girl begins to stand. She was pretty, there was no doubt, but most times, when people don't care about how they look materially, that gets over looked. Soon however, she would be back on track. It was a phase for her, and she decided it was over.

Thing is, they never turned off the gas valves.

Two steps towards the door before she can actually smell it, but she dismiss the fact and just keeps on getting her things together. The embroidering kit, the needles, the threads, the candle.

Flicker.

Thing is, as the unoccupied volume of a system decreases, the pressure of the gas contained with in, and along with that it's density increases.

She kept the window closed for concentration.

When you burn alive you tend to fall into a sort of shock state, and feel absolutely nothing, as your bodies adrenaline causes you to fall unconscious. Your bodies way of sparing you the most excruciating pain you could ever experience.

Thing is, the bubbling skin isn't even the worst part. It's the way your body curls onto itself, your head arching back, popping and stretching the melted skin on your abdomen. Your hair, or the singed and liquid remains of your beautiful beautiful hair, it almost touches the bones and melded flesh where your buttocks used to be.

Assume pugilists position.

Your fingernails cup down into your wrists, releasing the steam from the veins that should have blood in them. Assume the position. Your head touching your ass, your legs curled tightly into you. You're a child escaping the womb. Assume the position.

Thing is, she never saw it coming.

3 comments:

Ashes said...

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