Week 8: White – A Colour Waiting To Be Painted On

23 Jan

Silence. He was blankly staring at the wall. The still fine film of dust was gently covering everything in the room. The knocked over coffee table, the overturned bed, the battered paintings hanging lopsided. The carpet swollen and motionless. Emotionless the neon light flickered. Cold, staleness, sterility of action and thought, drive…There was no sound, the deafening roar of silence was all-consuming. He didn’t move, he was looking down upon the girl. Her position, her hands, her hair, her tits, her legs spread at a peculiar angle, her ankles, her livid face, her stomach, her fingers, fingernails, her ears and her piercings. Skin pierced, split by some needle, metal that spikes, cold metal that pricks, metal that separates skin from skin, severs the bond of our bodies. Stillness. Lack of movement. Lack.

He smacked her mouth several times until she bled. She tried to plead for mercy but there was no one listening. He slipped his fingers in her mouth and grabbed her tongue with part of her chin. He began to hit her head up against the wall, thud thud thud thud thud, she was whimpering…with his thumb he began to press on one of her eyes. The eyelids where fluttering, they got in the way and they were violently brushed aside. With a plopp the eye caved in, he sloshed his thumb in the cavity filled with blood and other fluids. She squirmed in pain but screamed not. She was opening and closing her mouth in a desperate, and somehow automatic movement. No sound. He began to rub her face on the carpet, forcing her face on the carpet, he put his whole weight on her body forcing her face on the carpet, pushing with both hands on her face, pressing with his entire body on her, smothering her face on the carpet. She began to leak blood. He took a small thin blade and began to stab her. Again and again and again and again and again, he stabbed at her ribs. Only on her right side.

 

He kissed her face, he kissed her eyes. He embraced her. He smiled feeling her warmth all over himself, it was like heaven. She was like heaven, her skin on his skin, her smell, the stillness and quiet. He smiled feeling her close to him, close to him. This embrace was white, if embraces would have colour this one would be white. A base for other colours to paint it, red and blue our purplish black wounds. The anguish we feel, it pours a sea of distress into our swollen hearts.

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