The World's a Fine Place

Refuge is sought in the crawlspace beneath a loose floorboard.

"I'm afraid."

"Hush dear."

Bated breath as footsteps move down the hall.

Closer, closer.

"Mommy."

A hand is clasped over a mouth.

Whistling comes from the hallway.

Closer, closer.

Stop!

The footsteps, the breathing.

Only the terror remains.

A door creaks open.

"Clau-di-a.

Ro-o-sie,

C'mon out.

I know you're in here.

Don't be scared."

Silent tears run down a mother's cheeks. The stench of whiskey fills the room.

Could the neighbors have heard the screams?

Would they call the police before the gunshots rang?

Was this world really worth fighting for?

The Incident at 1507 SE Benning, Apartment 21

The number eighty-four bus screeches to a halt in front of a rundown apartment complex. The building itself looks like it should be condemned, the decay showing through its bricks. The lamp lit SE Benning Street is an urban nightmare for any directionally challenged tourist. Grimy men slipinto the alleyways between the decomposing buildings, with money in their pockets and a fix on their minds. Women in high heels and tight clothes stroll down the sidewalk, stopping by anxious men in parked cars, asking if they wanted a ride. Men and women, alike in their soiled rags, sit on the steps in front of these shit houses because they can't even afford rent in an apartment this squalor. As this bus creaks to a stop in front of one-five-oh-seven SE Benning, they perk their ears up to see the bus-door open and quickly close as a single passenger steps out onto the street.

A fine looking businessman stepped out onto the concrete.

"Eddie," grins an old vagrant. His voice is scratchy and the man coughs into his fingerless gloves after speaking.

Despite his immediate welcome by the occupants, Edward Vincent does not belong on Benning Street. Anyone can tell this just by looking his general direction. Dark-haired and brown-eyed, Edward stands at six foot and is wearing a nice white-collar shirt to go along with his comfy white-collar job. He loosens his blood red, silk tie and digs through his pocket to find a quarter. As he steps up onto the complex's steps, he flips the elder the quarter and reaches to open the door...

Up in apartment 21, Victoria Valentini is brushing her raven hair. Behind the dark circles and bruised cheek, there is a face that could be on film. Legend has it, that the most beautiful of angels envied that perfect face, and in order to make themselves feel better, they cast her into the darkest pits of the world. She tries to size herself up in the smudged, cracked mirror. With her jet black hair cascading upon her shoulders, her gaze turns to her battle wounds. The circles are there to stay, she has become accustomed to the unwelcome marks of insomnia. The bruise, on the other hand, is fresh. Victoria likes to play with the big boys. Honestly, it's nothing a little foundation can't fix.

Little Italy's not wearing much. A black skin-tight wife beater and grey, stained boxers are all the girl's dressed in. She's not expecting company, but at the same time, her jaw is twitching. She can tell somebody is coming. Her eyes stay on the mirror, but her fingers stray down to open a dresser drawer and slowly begin to pull it open.

There is a knock at the door and the twitchy girl swerves around, gun in hand, aimed right for whoever tries to come through her door. Her jaw is clenched and her hands feel very at home around the cold steel. A single drop of sweat appears on her forehead as she calls out in her low rasping voice, "Who is it?"

"Just me Vicky. Put down the damn gun and let me in," answers a gruff voice from the other side of the apartment door.

Her body loses the tension at his familiar voice. Dropping her gun, she dashes for the door and opens it up like a fourteen-year-old girl, eager for her first date. A smile comes to her red lips and her violet eyes light up at the sight of him.

"Hey baby," replies her lover as she steps aside to let him in.

The tall man enters. Unlike Victoria's hidden beauty, he looks like a statue of a god. His dark brown hair is spiked up a bit in the front and his blue eyes glitter like diamonds. Though he is only four or five inches taller than her, he is large and muscular, making him look twice as big as the dainty Victoria.

"Paul, I wasn't expecting you," she smiles and lowers her head, blushing, trying to hide that her determined eyes are still on the open door.

Paul gives her a quick peck on the lips and groans as he slowly sits down on her bed. Taking off his shoes, the big man says, "This week has been motherfuckin' crazy, I swear. Just today, there were about fifteen guys who came to me about this total dumbshit problem that I fixed yesterday. Not to mention the wife has been on my back all week. Jimmy has a science fair. Lily needs help with her homework. Yadda, yadda, like I care about her damn kids."

Victoria cringes slightly at his words.

"'Ey babe, how's about closin' that door and gettin' me somethin ta drink?" Paul asks, in a way that is more of an order than a question. The mistress takes one last careful look down the hallway before closing the door and heading to the refrigerator. Paul kicks back on the bed and spots the remote to the small, stolen television under a pair of dirty panties. Grabbing it, he barks, "Doncha ever clean this place?"

Victoria rolls her eyes and looks through the small fridge. Pulling out a can of beer, she turns and replies annoyed, "No, you gotta problem with that?"

The big man's grin faded and his face went cold. There is the distinct sound of somebody in the hallway singing Irving Berlin's "Steppin' Out With My Baby" as Victoria's odd, violet eyes turn as icy as winter in Wisconsin. Standing up, Paul grabs her by the wrist and forcefully pulls her closer to him. "Listen Sparky," he growls, "I don't want you given me any lip unless it involves-" His other hand lands on her hip.

"Steppin' out with my baby,"

Her free hand raises and slaps across his face. There is one second of silence as they both take in what just happened. Instinctively, Paul throws her to the ground and bellows, "You little bitch!", as Victoria scampers on the ground trying to get away from her attacker.

"Can't go wrong cause I'm in right."

"Oh no, you don't!" he growls and grabs her by her long black hair. Before she can even scream in pain, the big man slams her against the dresser. Collapsing on the floor, her eyes spot the handgun lying on the ground next to her. He raises his hand to strike her as she reaches for the gun. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you!"

"Ask me when will the day be."

Suddenly a gunshot rings out just as Valentini's hand touches her pistol. Her eyes dart up to see Paul staggering and a smile comes to her lips as the apartment door flies open. In steps a tall, business man holding a hand gun and firing off two more shots into the big man, who is dead before he hits the floor.

"The big day may be tonight," finishes the gunman in bravado. Putting away his gun, he takes out a box of cigarettes from his left pocket and his eyes flit over to Victoria. "Jesus Vicky, he really fucked you up! Are you okay?"

He offers the bruised damsel his hand. Taking it, she stands up and straightens up her clothes.

"Eddie!" she growls in a hurried, hushed voice, "What the fuck took you so long? I was worried I'd have to finish him off myself. Christ are you sure this is gonna work? Won't the hole in the door give it away?"

Despite her evident panic, Edward holds one of the cigarettes at his lips and lights it. Breathing out smoke, he calmly smiles and whispers, "I could hear you fighting from the hallway. I could hear Mrs. Gonzales run for the phone worried about you. It will all look like I came to visit my little sister and saved her from a cheating bastard the only way I could. See this will clean up much more nicely than if it was a simple murder."

Victoria crosses her arms and sighs, "If this doesn't work I'm not visiting you in jail."

"Oh, if I go to jail, I'm taking you down with me, little sis," Edward replies. His voice is playful, but there is an honest threat behind it.

The beautiful girl shrugs it off as a police siren wails outside. The siren has become a familiar sound to her ear. She lays down on her bed and mutters, "There's gotta be something better."

---

This is something I wrote a long time ago. I kinda liked it though. >.<

Suck

That Morning

Sometimes I wonder if when you woke up that morning, you hit snooze on your clock like you always did or if you for once woke up exactly when you should have. I wonder if you showered in that morning like you always did or if you had showered previously that night. I wonder if you had to change your clothes several times to get that perfect combination or if you just threw something on. I wonder if you ate for breakfast. Was it your usual cereal bar and cup of coffee or did you sit down for a bowl of cereal or pancakes? Did you brush your teeth for the full three minutes or did you brushed your hair longer than usual? When you looked in the mirror, did you realize how great you looked? Did you realize you always looked great? Did you check your phone and see my message? Did try to text back your best friend and the message just didn't get through to my phone or was it still too awkward for you to even communicate with me?

Sometimes I wonder exactly what time you walked out your front door, and if you told your mother you loved her before leaving. I wonder if your older brother teased you as you were leaving or if he'd already left. Did your old piece of junk car stalled and you had to try a couple times before it would start running. Did you wave to that woman who always runs around your neighborhood in the morning. Was your mind thinking deeply on a certain subject, or were you mindlessly singing along to the song on the radio? What was playing on the radio? Was it your usual station, or was that song you could never stand playing and you had to change it to a different station? Or were you listening to a CD? Did that song remind you of anyone? Were certain words burnt in your brain?

Sometimes I wonder if some jerk cut you off, and if you swore a string of obscenities under your breath. I wonder if you sped to school cause you were running late or if you just didn't care because there were more important things on your mind. Did you even know what time it was or was the clock in your car a couple minutes slow? Did you catch all the red lights or ease through all the green lights? Did you wait impatiently at that one red light, or did you take your time before hitting the gas again? Did you see that truck coming or did it hit you before you even knew what was happening? How bad did it hurt? I hope to God that you didn't feel a thing. I like to tell myself that you snapped your neck on impact, but I know that wasn't your fate.

Sometimes I wonder what your last thought was about and if you knew you were going to die. I wonder if you thought about all the things if you had to live for and all the things you wish you'd never did. Did I cross your mind at all? Did you know how much I would miss you? Did you know how much I'd cry at your funeral and for the entire two months afterwards, and how many nights I would sit up wondering about every single thing happened to you? Could you have ever known how much I wish just one little part of those things on that morning had gone different? Because if it had, you'd still be on this Earth, even if you weren't with me.

---

I came up with the idea for this in Driver's Ed.

I'm kinda going through a breakdown. My mind hurts and I'm going back into that phase where I just absolutely hate everything about myself and I can't see myself ever having a happy future.