His breathing was even now, his arm thrown heavily over my hips. I waited for the tell-tale drunken snore. It came. Finally, he'd passed out.

I slipped from under his arm and got up slowly. I didn't want to wake him, but I also had no choice. It felt like I had a broken rib to go along with all the brusies this time. Then there was the broken glass.

He never hit me in the face. Only where no one would see the evidence of his kind of love. He never meant to hurt me; just teach me a lesson he thought I could only learn at the end of his fist. Today, I didn't show sufficient appreciation for the flowers he bought for me with his hard earned money.

Flowers. Not for my birthday or Valentine's Day. Just because he loves me. And I had the nerve to be less than happy because it was 2 in the morning, and he woke me up. Pushed the flowers in my face and said

"Smell'em, Annie."

Startled, I gasped and swatted at whatever was in my face. The flowers flew out of his hand and knocked over the glass of water I had on the bedside table. It crashed to the floor.

"You scared me to death, Tommy."

"I bought you flowers."

"What time is it?"

"Who cares? I bought you flowers. Say thank you."

I heard the tone, smelled the liquor. "Thank you, Billy. Why don't I clean up this glass while you get ready for bed."

Did I mention they sell them at the local bar so all the guys can bring them home to the women waiting for their drunken partners to return home?

Ingenius, really. I suspect they sell out every night.

I didn't see the punch coming. I should have known better.

He cried afterwards. Apologized. Somehow made it my fault as he asked for forgiveness.

I went to the guest bathroom down the hall. I filled the tub with hot water and lowered myself gently. I sat there a long time not crying. Just thinking. By the time the water was cold I knew I was leaving. For good this time. I didn't need this kind of love. No one did.

I packed a duffle bag quietly. I didnt take much: two pairs of jeans, all my underwear and bras and some t-shirts. And three dresses and a pair of low heeled pumps for job interviews.

I wrote him a note and left it next to his car keys.

I can buy myself flowers

Write my name in the sand

Talk to myself for hours

Say things you don't understand

I can take myself dancing

And I can hold my own hand

Yeah, I can love me better than you can

I try to write. I know I'm capable of it. I've written some decent things in the past. I've even written some things I'm proud of. But every time I sit down to write something I get distracted. I'm too hyped up to concentrate. Certain thoughts enter my brain and I lose my train of thought. Lately I can't even play chess. I used to play chess to just relax and stimulate my mind but lately it's like I don't even know how to play. It's not like I'm on drugs or anything. I don't know. It's almost like I'm ....

Pearls are the result of irritation. Ask any oyster. Or the host of any guest who's outlasted his welcome.

And I'm irritated.

The irony is that I use this concentric-layered aragonite and calcite to sequester my irritation. It just happens to be on the end of a pistol. It's to settle my discontent that began small as a grain. That milky white irony is now firmly within my grasp: solid, purposeful, 45-calibred, and well-aimed. It is an iron-clad clasp that is clammy and sweaty. I won't wait a day longer, lest it become rusty.

Colt Manufacturing Company and Smith & Wesson solve problems. They remedy discontent. I bought stock in them before I bought this useful tool lock, stock, and barrel. It's the only thing that memorializes me in this alleged crime, committed--allegedly--by the alleged shooter who is me. Allegedly.

People with imagination, however, will ask, "Who killed whom?"

And what will finally solve my problem is that I must turn this pearly executioner on myself as well as you. Because the whole drama--the discontent, the irritation, the pain, the cruelty that ruins what's left of my life--is a package deal of you and me. There's no villain and there's no victim. You and I are way past that. How would one draw the line between us? This is our final dance macabre together. Does it matter whether it's here or at the end of a rope? What does matter in any dance is who leads.

May I?

I have clammed up tight, but the irritation has continued within--until I find I must open, explosively, to discharge that irritation. It's just part of the pearl-making ecosystem, don't you think?

You want to live? So do I! But there's no living with you. We're gonna go together. I've tried to understand your motivations and your reasons. I found them irritating, so I suppose I'm just a terrible host; and you've outstayed your welcome.

So, before all is done, we're both gonna be dead. Two birds with one stone, eh?

Me and my terminal disease. I hope you find it funny, but I've left explicit instructions that my tombstone read,

YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Big and fat Monday, as usual. Challenge of the Week CCXXV is here since yesterday, but we make it official across the airwaves in our new video, along with the winner of last week's CotW, as well as shedding some light on two talents new to Prose. To greet them with a martini, and to just tune in to poke at the talking monkey, the link is waiting beneath the new Challenge of the Week's right below this sentence.

https://theprose.com/challenge/14026

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeqBJTqsl88

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Remember the night that we set your house on fire?

The heat on my skin (so hot)

And you pulled me rolling over and over into the flames

Reverse destruction in that spark of light

Like a fiery roller-coaster or bumper cars falling 10 stories.

Lightening doesn't hit this hard.

Or fast.

Like two circuits in a tesla coil,

We resonate...

Where can we go? I screamed over the sound of the sirens.

The flashing lights a disco in my head.

And you just smiled.

Smiled...

Speaking volumes up to ten.

On and on it raged until the dawn pulled us from the charred embers

Of the night..

Covered in sweat, and fear, and wonder.

I wonder...

Can you hear my thoughts when I think of backwards driving through the forest of your mind?

Snow caped scented pine tree on the rearview mirror.

Bouncing down that bumpy road.

Again...

I'm paralyzed by the sign language of your eyes.

Attempting to speed read between the lines of this novel, as you strike the match and light the pages.

And we burn again, and again, and again.

Drawing from the well that has none,

I mount my post before them, undone.

While in position, the room goes still,

Like vultures, poised to seal their kill.

My heart, with its cathartic song and dance

Sounds, my voice without a chance.

As hollowed breaths eclipse my phrases,

My skin percolates, scarlets, and blazes.

And as each syllable fumbles its way,

My limbs churn just to stand, to stay.

Here I am before the crowd,

Taming courage to say aloud.

Here I am before you,

Simply to tell but afraid to.

I had just exited the restroom when the clamoring voices of several young children filled my ears. There were four of them. They ran wildly, everywhere. I scanned the area, certainly a parent is nearby; surely they cannot be just unattended like this…

Then I saw her. She weakly reached out toward her rambunctious brood, mumbling softly and incoherently. In a tattered carrier strapped to her chest, a red-faced infant wailed. The woman had a haggard look about her and dark smudges beneath her eyes. Greasy hair kept falling in her face.

Then a forlorn, guttural noise escaped her mouth. She suddenly fell back against a nearby wall and slowly slid down to the floor. She began to weep loudly. Her sobs and howls joined along with the squalling infant on her chest. She and her baby became a symphony of human misery.

She was partially blocking the walkway. A few onlookers spoke harshly to her as they stepped over her legs:

“Don’t breed ‘em if you ain’t gonna take care of ’em!”

“Ever heard of birth control?”

“Oh, give me a break, lady…”

Fifteen-year-old me looked around.

Someone should help her…

I looked around awkwardly for an adult to offer aid. I found not one friendly face, only strangers’ expressions of shock and disgust or averted gazes.

I’m just a kid. I don’t know what to do.

Maybe she was a single mom… Maybe she was simply overwhelmed… Maybe she was suffering from postpartum depression. I will never know exactly what was happening with her that day. My point is, it doesn’t matter the circumstance. I had a chance to be a comfort and blessing to a stranger and I opted out.

This is where my shame lies: my inaction. Even if I was unsure what practical help I could offer, I could have (at the very least) sat there on the floor with her. I could have let a hurting person know they were not alone on a bad day. But I chose to turn and walk away, with an empty prayer on my lips that help may soon find her.

I could have been her help, her comfort, her answered prayer… but I walked away.

I will carry this shame with me always.

Eyes, lips, curls, tongue, ears, all are significant parts of me. The parts of me I try my best to not judge. But sometimes...

Sometimes I fail, and I find myself falling into the darkness I used to call my home. In those moments, it is vital to cling to the positive. It is vital to cling to the ones you love. I force myself to think of the things I am grateful for, such as family, friends, free education, and books. But sometimes, even that fails, and I find myself defenseless against my biggest enemy...

My inner critic.

It tears me apart from the inside, dissecting and labeling all of my flaws. All I can do is wait it out. All I can do is sit there calmly, and breathe. After the war inside of me is over, I assess the damage, I observe the sore parts of my soul, the parts that were attacked. All I want to do is collapse into myself, but I know I can't. I know I have to get up again.

I have so much to live for.

jolted awake

no soul for a

million miles

only a soft voice

and the sound of

shattering glass

the ghost child

hides in the basement

she died of yellow fever

she is trapped here

and doesn’t know

how to escape

a small black mass

scurries across the floor

I reach for a smoke

to appease the gods

and settle back into

the rich purple and

blue tones of the

television

It is only a matter

of time

before

the sun rises

the gold to mend

my shattered

glass

I am guilty of the sin of vanity.

If I pass a window, I stop and fix my hair.

I focus on my reflection in my laptop screen even now.

I can see my round tired eyes.

I can see my eyebrows that recovered from my excess plucking in middle school.

I can see my bouncy casual curls, pushed back by my $5 sunglasses from Walgreens.

My breasts look good today in this shirt.

Especially if I stretch my arms above my head.

This shirt used to be my mother’s.

But vanity is not admiration.

Vanity is obsession.

I am sick of myself.

Body horror, if you will.

I counted three new stretch marks on the top of my bulging stomach yesterday.

Is two pounds a lot?

To gain, yes.

To lose, no.

I catch glimpses of myself in my mirrored closet door.

I’m always hunched.

It’s gotten to the point where if I sit up straight for too long, my muscles ache and tremble.

If I plant my feet on the ground and sit in a chair, my legs will shake uncontrollably.

If I lay on the floor, my neck is crooked and my back is arched.

I can’t straighten my knees.

I have a box in my closet of all my favorite clothes.

None of them fit me anymore.

A pair of jeans I once bought because they gapped around my waist and flowed around my thighs.

They don’t button anymore.