BROKEN GIRLS DO NOT DIE
SCENE ONE
The room revolved into view, the window drapes hanging depressed and lank with the afternoon heat. A fat fly buzzed about the window sill, sipping the sun and washing its feet while a phone vibrated towards the edge of a chair as if dancing on epileptic feet.
The girl willed herself to a sitting position; the headache hit her like a hammer and she winced. She sat still for some minutes, as the pain became a comfortable throb and the bile that had almost burst out of her throat, receded back into her stomach. Her eyes were closed in those few minutes, so she didn’t see the phone fall from the chair to the tiled floor. The crash roused her and despite the pain, she jumped off the bed and rushed to the floor. She picked up the phone then she groaned as she saw the cracked screen. She touched the power button but the phone refused to come on. She dumped herself on the bed in anger and tried to switch on the phone. It came on but the screen was dark. She looked at the phone for a minute, as if her mind was somewhere else, then she threw the phone across the room. It hit the window, disturbing the black fly, who flew away in a huff and perched on a vomit specked blouse that draped the chair and the floor.
The girl held her head in both hands and moaned. The headache was now a steady throb that seemed bent on removing her brain from her head. She could not even open her eyes to look around her. She slowly sagged back to the lying position, she had been in earlier. She was still there, when a knock sounded on her door.
INTERLUDE
Fear is like a sore; A richly infested sore that refuses to heal. He is like a boy with a gun; A gun that has its safety off. Fear is like a song; A beautiful song that makes home sweet, That makes sleeping easy, That makes dying beautiful, That takes food from lips to dust. Fear is a thing to fear; Fear is everywhere.
SCENE TWO
"come in." she managed to mutter. Her voice going to the edge of the bed before fading into the noise of another knock.
She groaned, her eyes closed, and tried to get up but the headache gripped her head tightly and little veins stood around her scalp like laurels.
“Come in!” she said, a bit louder.
The door handle turned and the door squeaked open. The man who entered, wore a red long sleeved shirt, white trousers and white shoes. He had on a gold necklace, two gold rings on his left hand and sun glasses shading his eyes. His hair was slicked back with lots of hair oil and his skin was blotchy with the scars of bleaching gone wrong. He smiled and his white teeth glinted in the dim room.
“Samantha darling, you are still in bed?” he asked, striding to the edge of the bed then the smile fled his face.
He glanced about the room in disgust. The fly had called a friend and both of them were washing their feet and wings in a pile of puke that sat near a torn skirt and pink panties. He turned away and looked at Samantha, who still moaned, her eyes closed.
“You have been drinking again?” he asked, anger smouldering behind the sunglasses. “I have told you several times, that your drinking habit is spoiling my business. You think we can make money with you looking like this?” he added, waving his hands at her.
“My head hurts.” She muttered from the bed. She opened one eye and peeked at the man. "Boss Fred, you are leering. Do you have anything to make me feel good?” she asked.
Fred looked away. He had seen Samantha’s body before, Hell! He had dipped into that well once or twice, it was a part of his benefits but right at that moment, her big breast lying splat across her chest like overripe pawpaw and her stretch mark filled laps offered no enticement to him.
“Get up and get dressed, we have work to do.” He said, going to the clothes hanger, that hung from the wall opposite the door. As he drew near the hanger, he scrunched his nose in distaste;
“Are these clothes even clean?” he asked, staring at the clothes like they had a virus.
Samantha muttered a reply that never left the air around her lips. He turned back and looked at her suspiciously
“where is your phone; I called you before coming and you didn’t answer?” He asked.
She pointed towards the window. Fred walked back to the window and saw the phone on the floor. He picked it and sighed. He walked to the bed and stared at her. He dropped the phone on the bed and climbed into the bed. From his pocket, he brought out a syringe, a small bottle containing a clear liquid and a pack of cigarettes. He loosened his belt and grabbed her right hand. Samantha moaned and opened her eyes then she smiled; she was beautiful for a second.
Fred tied the belt around her arm and drew the liquid into the syringe. When he found a vein, he sank the needle into Samantha and her body greedily drank the drug. Fred removed the needle and the belt when he was done, then he sat back and lit a cigarette.
INTERLUDE
Death is a thing; A nominal in a sentence; a noun. It is a place, she is a woman, It is a sweet fruit that peppers the lips. It is the scent of rotting life; It is the sea after the moon had gone to sleep.
Death is a space; A white space between typed words; Silence between breath, between utter words; Pause between beats, between pumping blood. Death is an emptiness, not darkness.
Death is a flame; A brush fire brushing the soil; Cackling laughter taming wild undergrowth; Scorched flesh saying prayers at the altar of sacrifice.
Death is a deed; A hand raised, a look pierced. It is a broken barrage of blows, The ra-ta-ta of bullet wounds. Death is.
SCENE THREE
Fred finished his cigarette then turned to Samantha. She had a blissful smile on her face. Her eyes fluttered behind her eyelids as she dreamed. He got up and went to the clothes hanger. He found a trouser and a t-shirt that looked to be clean. He saw a white bra that had lost its colour and a pair of fairly clean panties lying on the floor under the hanger. He came back to the bed and dumped them beside Samantha.
“Alright, get dressed. It is time to go. We have work to do.” He said.
Samantha opened her eyes and looked at Fred. She smiled again then she sat up. She got dressed quickly while Fred smoked another cigarette.
When she was dressed, Fred passed her a stick of cigarette and lit it for her. She drew the smoke into her lungs and let it perforate every part of her then she exhaled slowly.
“who are we to kill boss?” she slurred, as smoke curled away from her.
Fred brought out a photograph and gave it to her. She looked at it, then she whipped the chair with it and she came away with the fly smeared to the grinning face on the photograph; she smiled at Fred and she was beautiful for a second.
@warpedpoetic - it feels like I am reading a 'musical', probably because the prose feels like a script and the poetry the chorus :) I'd definitely like to see you experiment more with this genre and develop your style :)
Thank you. I stumbled upon it and it kind of hit me as a fresh and unique way. I will work more on it and we will see what I come up with.
I really love this style of writing of yours, just like others.This is a poem that's unending.
Thanks boss @dorth. I am finding new ways to create original content.
What a great writer you are, I saw the post on discord and I just have to drop a line. Good work, keep it up
Thank you. Don't worry, I've got more in the oven
This post has been selected for curation by @msp-curation by @sunravelme. It has been upvoted and will be featured in this week's Curation for Creatives post. It will also be considered for the official @minnowsupport curation post and if selected will be resteemed from the main account. Feel free to join us on Discord!
Wow thank you. Thank you. I don't know what to say; thank you @sunravelme