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Wednesday, January 10, 2007

A Sea Breeze Martini and No Prince Charming

Woman.
Curly, auburn hair that hangs to Her shoulders.
A smile that reveals a shock of white teeth.
Long, tanned legs, crossed under the short black skirt.
A tinkling laugh that bursts forth from
Tickle-me-pink glossed lips
Which underline the delicate ski-jump nose.
Brown shadow outlines the smoke-colored eyes
That sparkle with reflections of the neon lights
That hang on the walls of the flashy dance club.
With slender fingers, tipped by perfectly manicured nails,
She raises the frosted glass of Her Sea Breeze Martini
To Her soft, rose-painted lips.
Man.
He approaches the bar and the young Woman,
And pets Her soft curls,
As if he owned them,
And the whole world,
While he suavely asks Her if he may have the pleasure,
Neigh, the honor of buying her a drink.
Coldly, She delivers her reply.
She has a drink.
She has a boyfriend.
She is set for the evening.
But thank you, kind sir, for the offer.
The man,
Defeated,
Walks away with two truths and a lie.
She ponders,
Why do they always choose Her as the object
Of their affections?
She must be a muse,
The Muse of one thousand sonnets.
Man.
Another appears.
The ninth of the evening.
He isn't Prince Charming,
That's for sure.
He sits heavily down
Orders His drink
Makes small talk with the bartender,
small talk with the Lady, in turn.
He stutters when talking to Her,
When flirting with Her.
Seems nervous when He asks Her
For a dance,
To buy her a drink.

And She accepts because He's different.
He stutters when he talks.

She is having fun with the Man from the bar.
So he offers to walk her to her car.

And She accepts because He's different.
He's not handsome, but not unhandsome.

But She has had too much alcohol.
So he offers her a ride home.

And She accepts because He's different.
He isn't cocky, and doesn't try to be suave.

He opens the door for Her,
She steps in,
And He closes the door.
She chatters on as She gives Him directions.
He remains quiet
And drives.
At the last turn to Her house,
The Man continues on.
What is He doing? She wonders.
He is silent,
Hasn't said a word.

There's a playground near Her abode
A place She loved to play as a child
Where family picnics had occurred
Where She and Her friends had gathered in high school
To cause mayhem.
Out of the glove box,
The large, overwhelming hands bring with them
A rectangular box that almost looks like a jewelry case,
But Black, and with sharp edges.
He reaches in the box again, and this time
Brings out tape.
Duct Tape.
Binding Tape.
He rips a piece long enough to cover her mouth,
Pins her to the seat,
And covers up those pretty, pink lips
With Silver.
He unbuckles her seat belt, and grabs her arm,
Nearly yanking it out of the socket,
With the force He uses to pull her out of the car.
She hopes there are teenagers in the park,
Like she used to be.
But they fail her,
Because it IS three in the morning.
Sit on the merry-go-round, pretty
He says, this time without a stutter.
It was your favorite toy as a kid.
He flings her to the gravel,
And she hits her head on the spinning device.
To avoid more pain, she does what he says.
But the gesture was worthless.
She would have done better to run.
Before she knows it, she is stripped
Each limb bound to a pole of the plaything.
He kneels on her,
Then lays on her,
His weight suffocating her.
He hurts her, hurts her, hurts her,
And gets up.
Zips His jeans.
Smiles a mean, maniacal smile
And reaches for the black box from the glove compartment.
Opening the box,
A reflection of moonlight glances off His face,
Revealing a scar along His cheek.
Must have been from another rape victim.
A five-inch knife materializes in his hand.
She would have gasped,
But she had no mouth to do it with.
Only the Silver He gave her.
Into her flesh He carves His signature,
The mark He has left on all his victims.
The Apple in the pupil of an Eye.
She moans in agony with every inch
Of creamy skin He destroys.
And with every noise, He pulls harder on the knife,
Increasing the moans to screams.
And just as He had done with every other victim,
He breaks the left side of her ribcage,
Cuts open the skin and slices the arteries and veins
Connected to her heart.
As her lifeless body spurts the remaining blood,
He removes her heart,
Wraps it in a Black plastic garbage bag He fetched from the car.
He's produced a shovel,
And has pulled back the pre-grown grass
That covers the field, thirty-four feet away from the picnic shelter.
He starts to dig.
A Hole.
Three by six by six.
She will never have a headstone.
She will only be discovered if a dog
Can smell her decay.
And the Man?
He will continue with His day life of writing books,
And His night life of killing women.

1 comments:

Aphrodite's Disappointment said...

Yes, I know it's really odd. I think it came from discussing crime in my Civics class.