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.

Ashes to Ashes

The pitch-black sky stretched for miles as two old friends, a man and woman in the prime of their lives, sat on a front porch, watching the deadly sky. The man sat in the corner holding his knees, with a fearful look in his eyes. Lying upside down with her feet up in the air while she stretched, the woman yawned, coughed harshly, and checked her watch.

“It’s half past noon,” she informed her friend and sat up, crossing her legs like a child eager to hear a story.

“Never wanted to see the end of the world,” the young man sighed and leaned against the railing. “Always thought it would come long after my children were long gone.”

“Well, somebody had to see it,” she responded and stood up. Her voice sounded as far away as her eyes looked, now wondrously gazing at the midnight afternoon sky. Coughing again, she looked down at her friend and offered a hand for him to take. Reluctantly, he took it and pulled himself up to stand next to her. Walking toward the road, the young woman paused only to pick up a stick in the front yard. Her companion followed, curiously, as they walked down the road to the edge of the neighborhood to the street.

With the mobs now hiding, or worse, the street, once a busy highway, now was littered with trash, a few crashed cars, and the occasional sign of death. The young man tried not to look at that last bit when they did come across one. His associate, on the other hand, seemed not to notice such things at all. In fact, she seemed to notice nothing as she strolled the street, poking cans and hitting pebbles with her stick. So distant from this hell, she would only stop every once in awhile to cough such a hacking, horrid cough that her friend would stop as well and sigh.

“We’re dying, Eve,” he finally said plainly, after a particularly intense coughing fit that she had to stop and sit on the curb. Behind them stood the grocery mart, with its windows shattered and food, necessities, and other things strewn across the parking lot. The screaming, fighting, and gunshots now had been replaced with an eerie silence.

The silence caused young man’s hands began to tremble, and his friend looked up at him, with a trace of fear in her eyes. The fear, though, was not for his words, but for his expression. His eyes had the gleam of a madman, for he was surely mad, and his face twisted to this panicked frenzy as he spoke.

“We’re dying,” he repeated, more angrily this time, “And there’s nothing our technology, our science, our prayers can do about it. Christ, you’d think that we’d be able to do something about it, but in the end, the high and mighty human race falls like ants beneath a kid’s magnifying glass to Mother Nature. You and I, we kept our heads when all were rioting in the streets. We were calm and collected when all others were trying vainly to cheat death, and what do we get for our rationality? We get to die like the rest of them! They acted like animals and we were calm. It’s getting harder to breathe. And look at you, Eve; you can hardly stand.”

The woman looked at her ankles and he took a step back. “We’re going to die,” he, with a manic laughter in his voice, yelled to the heavens as he tugged at his hair, looking desperately for an answer, “and there’s not a damn thing that can save us!”

With that, he collapsed to his knees, coughing. For the final time, he repeated a single phrase. This time his words were filled with despair as he hugged his knees and in a soft, broken voice cried, “We’re dying, Eve.”

The girl embraced her best friend and told him in a calm, comforting voice, “Adam, we were always dying.”

===

Okay so, it's been awhile since I wrote in this. First off, the preceding story kind of came to me while I was watching a Twilight Zone. It was originally going to be two old friends sitting on the front porch admitting their love for each other at the end of the world, but just how the boy seemed so anxious, and the girl seemed so laid back, made me want to make them go for a walk, and eventually, Adam lost his mind. Then I just had to end it with that line. It kind of wrote itself. I'm debating whether I should submit it to LitMag or not. So when you comment this, it would be helpful if you point out things that sound awkward or things that don't make sense. Btw, extra points if you get the title. I don't expect anyone to get it though, so don't feel bad.

Secondly, update on what's going on Rhiannon-World, so far 2oo9 has been amazing. I haven't cried yet so that's a good sign. Granted, it's only the second day, but I digress. As for what's been going on since I last updated, I've been kind of caught up in a bunch of stuff recently, if you know what I'm talking about good for you, if you don't it doesn't matter because I'm finally over it and getting back to myself. I am not in any way looking forward to going back to that hell that is Hardin Valley Academy. Seriously am I the only person who dies a little inside when I remember: "I don't go to a high school; I go to an academy."? It makes me want to shoot a bunny in the face. I really, really hate that school. You have no idea.

Thirdly, I wish you a happy 2oo9. Whether jolly old 'o8 was the best year of your life so far, or the worst, or even just an okay year, every year has the potential to be better than the last.

Cigarette Burn

Enter with me into a dimly lit dank bar in the middle of the city. Naturally, it is a Friday night. Outside all are hustling and bustling, shopping for a new pair of pumps with their girlfriends, passionately kissing a lover in the back of a cab, or finding one at the nearest club, but not in here. In here, the bartender's alcohol never stops pouring; the shots are thrown back like the booze is the antidote to a lethal poison that is the patrons' lives. Just a couple blocks down there is an old church, with stained glass windows of saints and statues of the virgin mother, but here in this haven, there are no saints or virgins; there is no God. All that exists is the patrons impending death, and the mixed stench of cigarettes, scotch, and failure that both hang in the thick air.

The hero of our tale sits at the bar in his usual stool. Every time he walks in, the bartender greets him by a pseudonym, for he'd never admit that the man who he was outside the bar spent his Friday nights in such a dismal place. But it does not matter who this man is on the outside world. All that matters is who he is in here. In here, he sits keeping to himself, drowning himself in whiskey. There's something he wants to forget, and of course, he doesn't know what he's hiding from has been tracking him down and is about to stumble into his very sanctuary, trapping him like a fox running from the hounds. Dogged and unyielding, his own resoluteness is his greatest quality and his greatest flaw.

Despite his grisly appearance against this miserable place, when he steps into the real world, he's considered a good-looking man. As a man of at least twenty-four years, his boyish appearance was still acceptable, but as he nears his twenty-fifth birthday, now less than half a year away, and had now graduated college, a shave and a haircut would be a proper rite of passage into manhood. For now, he relishes in his last months of young adulthood with his soft, chestnut brown hair hanging loosely in his face. When he stands, he’s near six-foot two-inches. His thin face is birdlike, with cheekbones high and pronounced, not to mention a strong, manly chin. In the outside world, his large, round eyes are deemed one of his better features, but in here, his eyes were sunken and heavy-lidded, like he hasn’t slept in years. Nicotine stains his fingers, and the ashtray next to him is filled with his burnt out stubs.

The bell on the door dings quietly as somebody enters the bar. The bartender looks up, but he doesn’t. His whiskey is all that matters.

“Hey there, stranger,” a cheery voice greets him as its body sits down on the stool next to him.

He grunts in acknowledgement. His eyes glaze over just long enough to see that the voice belongs to a young woman, around his age, with such short blonde hair and such a flat body, that if it weren’t for the feminine clothing, girly face, and the fact that a gay guy wouldn’t dare step foot in a bar like this, he wouldn’t have been sure if it was woman at first.

“Not much of talker, izzy?” she asks the bartender as she makes her order of scotch on the rocks.

“Naw, don’t mind Sam,” Carl replies. “He’s just a little bit of a grouch.”

“Your name’s Sam?” she asks, with a cheerful tone to her voice. “Well, I’m Stephanie, but most just call me Stevie.”

At this, he raises his head a little too fast. There’s a panicked look in his eyes but he doesn’t want to give it away. His face is straight, but his eyes are wider than usual. Al looks at him a slight shock at his odd behavior, but goes on to pour some more beer for another client.

“Well that got your attention,” she remarks with a sanguine smile. Despite her pixie-cut, Buddy Holly glasses, and trendier clothes, she can’t hide that fifteen-year-old girl with long, braided, sandy blonde hair who wore white blouses and knee-length skirts. That elfin face was unforgettable.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” she asks. “What’s wrong Steve?”

It’s getting harder to breathe. He wasn’t expecting this. It was impossible.

Awkwardly, he spits out, “Yes, my name is Sam.” He manages to stand up. The room is swirling in his head and he props himself up against the bar with his left arm. Extracting a box of Lucky Strikes and a lighter, out from his pocket, he leans against the bar unsteadily while he slowly pulls out a single cigarette, puts it to his lips, and lights it shakily, taking three or four tries of flicking on the lighter for it to work. The other two exchange confused glances and watch him, unsure on what exactly they are witnessing.

Well at least, that’s what they look like on the outside. On the inside, she knows exactly what she’s looking at.

“Seems like you need to lie down, Sam,” she suggests, innocently. “I could hail you a cab.”

“No, no, I can do that, without Sam­– Stevie,” he replies, hurriedly, trying to make his way to the door, calling back to the bar. “Put it on my tab Carl!”

“Will do Sam!” the bartender yells back at him.

The door closes behind him and our hero stumbles into the alley adjacent to the bar, vomiting out all was inside him.

“Are you okay Sam?”

“Leave me alone,” he growls.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the pixie replies, callously.

“It was a long time ago. I just want to forget.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t tell everyone!”

His stomach lurches and he tries to stand up. She steps in front of him, making sure not to tread in the acid on the ground, but he refuses to look at her.

“Because you’re dead!” he yells, hands on his knees.

Angrily, she steps forward, not caring that she’s now standing in what was once in his stomach, grabs him by the collar, and forces him to look her in the eye. “Do I look dead to you?” she screams.

“Where do you get off being mad at me?” he spits at her and pushes her off of him. “You’re the one who said that Samantha was dead.”

“What?” she asks, in disbelief at his reply.

“Don’t touch me, Steve. I’m dead! It’s all your fault, Steve! If you hadn’t left me, it would’ve never happened! That horrible man did terrible things to me and it’s your entire fault! I was a kid, Sam! I was a stupid fucking kid! How was I supposed to know that it would happen? It was movie stuff! Things like that didn’t happen in the real world! At least not to us!”

Caught up in the frustration, he kicks over a garbage can and strikes his fist against the brick wall. With a crack, it bounces off and begins to pound with pain. Wincing slightly, he ignores the throbbing ache. It’s nothing compared to the ache in his head.

“You were my friend,” she whimpers. “That’s all I needed from you.”

“I was a kid,” he repeats calmly. “The lines got blurred somewhere along the lines. I didn’t know that it would result in this.”

“But it did.”

“What do you want? An apology? I didn’t do anything wrong! At least not to you! What do you want from me?”

Silence fills the alley. He can’t even see her in detail anymore. All he sees is a shadow in the darkness, but he can still feel her eyes burning into him.

“I want your cigarettes.”

Taking a step back, he stares at her. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re not getting my cigarettes.”

“Give them to me!” she screeches.

“Fine!” he yells back, digging his hand into the pocket and removing the pack. Heatedly, he shoves it into her hands. “It’s just one pack. I have at least seven more at home, and I can always buy another.”

“You’re never going to smoke them again.”

“What?”

“Stop pretending you don’t hear me!” she demands and pushes him against the wall.

With every fiber of his being he wants to just punch her in the face, but he doesn’t. He just stands there and snarls, “Why should I?”

“Because if you do, you’ll have my forgiveness. That is what you want, right?”

“What makes you think I give a damn about your forgiveness?”

She scoffs, “Please Steven, you use my name as an alias. You spend your nights in that squalor of a bar. There’s no way you’ve forgiven yourself for what happened. It still haunts you to know that somehow you’re responsible. You justify your actions. You claim that because you didn’t perform the act, you’re not at fault, but the fact of the matter is you know that if you had just been my friend, none of this would’ve happened. And it kills you inside.”

His eyes are burning and his lips whisper, “Leave me alone.”

“All you have to do is make that promise to me, and you will never see me again.”

“Why do you think I’ll honor it?”

“You will,” she states.

And he knows he will. It doesn’t matter if she physically does come back when he breaks his promise to her. Every time he puts the cigarette to his lips he’ll think of her and that will be enough to keep him away from it forever.

“I promise I’ll never smoke again.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Turning, she walks away out of the alley. His eyes follow her but he can’t move.

“Sam,” he calls out right before she steps out into the sidewalk. The streetlights silhouette her dainty figure.

“Yes, Steve,” she replies.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.”

The Roommate

The apartment door swings open and closes with a slam. The sound of sobbing fills the room.

"God, did he reject you? I knew it. I told you! You were getting in too deep. You belong nowhere."

There's a sound of a purse and a jacket being dropped. Clicky shoes cross over to a drawer to retrieve a spoon.

"I’m sorry. I should’ve known. I just thought-"

Shoes are kicked off and the freezer door opens. A half-empty carton of vanilla ice cream is removed, and the door is shut again. The top is torn from it, and spoon violently digs into the cold vanilla cream.

"Oh really? You thought! Leave the thinking to me, girl! We’re not made to love."

A body sits down on the recliner, curling up under a thinly woven blanket.

"But I was! That’s my whole purpose in life. I love! I love my family, my friends, and-"

"Him?"

Tears are silenced and a sigh escapes a pair of lips. The room is still. Massive amounts of a cold, comforting, sugary treat are consumed until the entire carton is empty. The spoon is deposited into the empty shell and discarded on a coffee table.

"Yeah, him."

"Well he doesn’t want you. I told you that from the beginning."

There's another sigh. A head pounds. Eyes shut.

"Stop it, just stop it. Somebody will want me. If not him, someone. No one can go through life without ever being loved."

"No they won’t! And yes, people like us, well, we’re better off alone."

An exasperated scream silences the apartment once more. A calm fills the room right before an emotional storm unleashes itself. The blankets are thrown off. The coffee table is overturned and a picture is thrown onto the ground, shattering into pieces. CD's are smashed; shoes are thrown at the walls. A cellphone vibrates on the counter only to be hurled against the wall. It vibrates twice more and stops.

Footsteps slowly cross to the phone. A curious hand checks the number. A small smile appears on chapped lips only to be quashed by a-

"Don't even think about it. He just wants to make sure you made it home safely."

"Because he cares?"

"Because he doesn't want your blood on his hands."

A heavy sigh is heaved and the door to a single bedroom is opened, closed, and leaned against. Curled in a ball, hair is let down and falls on a face. Tears return, but quietly. On the door a cellphone vibrates three more times, until finally somebody gives up hope on contacting a weary friend.

"I’m so tired."

Lights turn off. Blankets are sought.

"Just go to sleep. When you wake up, you won’t feel a thing. I’ll take it over from here."

Just sleep.