Cold Blood. (go back »)

I love to write. I'm a very dramatic writer, and I have more work than this. However, since I doubt many will read this I'm just gonna post my favorite piece, "Cold Blood." The rest of my work is in my MySpace blog, which you can find linked in my contacts.  That being said, check this out.

He whispered sweet nothings like no tomorrow; definitely sweet nothings. So he kissed her face with concrete-hard knuckles. Left love marks of purple, black, blue. His heart beat like his fists did; blood pressure raised with anger. She was trapped. Dumb-founded and in twisted love with her own personal Ike Turner. There's a thin line between love and hate, right? She struck back with crimson; blood filled spit laced her painful truths.

"You are just like your father, Michael! A woman-beating ASS—"

It caused his anger to excel, yes, even further than it had. He cut her statement directly in it's source with clenched fingers.

"SHIT!" he drew his right fist back to be cradled in his left hand. That last hook caught her teeth; right before the thud of her tense body sounded off the floor. She lied there, hands cupped over her face. His chest, heaving with fast breathing patterns, rose and fell as he almost literally let the heatedness escape from his lips. Hot sighs allowed him to calm down just enough to walk out, and run his bleeding hand under the cold tap. Staring into the solid gray eyes, his own, he let the mirror tell him stories. Each scar demonstrated a new one; when his father beat him for failing Physics in his Junior year, or even when he decided to get a smart mouth and stand up to him, on behalf of his mother. Before he could fully hear the trilogy the mirror whispered, he averted his eyes to the icy water. Reaching for the towel rack, he snatched up an emerald tinted towel and sat it on the side of the sink, to be used whenever he was finished.

She sobbed just low enough so that he would not hear her. Sympathy was not to visit her, at least not from his angle. If anything—he would return with annoyed gestures, telling her to 'shut the fuck up' before he gave her something to cry about. She lifted her shaky left ring-clad hand from her face. Decorated in lovely fire-engine shades. Blood, she remembered the disturbing moments of their early years. When they would be called to take his mother to the hospital. She would be doused in rose red, and of course Joe had done it. But to the doctor, she fell down the stairs or walked into the glass door. She felt sorry for the woman, yet sadly understood her.

Michael was the one to shower her is gifts—from chocolates to diamonds; from scars to fractures. He would shake her up, and hold her later. He would bust one set of lips, and pleasure the others. This is what Martha went through; this is what Joe had done. She knew that she had loved him dearly. She knew that she was not capable of leaving him. And somehow, she knew that she could not end up like Martha. Her husband would not be the cause of her death.

That's when she found it. Erica mustered up the strength to crawl to the center of the wood floor and remove the loose plank. With steady hands this time she pulled the shiny revolver out of the hole and opened it to observe the 6 chambers. One bullet. One chance. She placed her 148 pounds onto her two size 9 ½ feet and crept towards the sound of running water. He did not detect her; did not lift his head. She didn't hesitate. Before he knew it she had pistol whipped him—allowing a loud grunt to escape with her efforts. Through clenched teeth and with both hands on the gun she said the last words he would hear.

"Tell your mother, this one was for her."

In My Work.