Ok, so this isn't particularly good, but as I promised to post something, and as I can't be arsed to write anything new today, this is what you're going to get.
I wrote it a couple of years ago, only about 500 words so not as long as it looks. Feel free to coment, good, bad, indifferent. As with most of the stuff I seem to write, somebody dies in it.
She always looked sad when she smiled, like she’d lost something once, and never learned how to get it back. She’d sit by the window and look out, her blonde oh-so-wavy hair down to her shoulders and smile that sad smile. She’d smiled like that since as long as anyone can remember. No one really knew why. Her father died when she was just two, and some folks said she got it from her mother. Others said she smiled just fine.
She was smiling her smile when she was in that bar down by the sea, that trendy one with the stripped wooden floors and barmen who spend all day making cocktails for girls who giggle, flipping bottles and glasses like performing seals in a circus.She worked in the new hotel up on Station road at the reception Pretty enough girl as she was, and only just in her twenties.But it was in that bar, the one by the sea with the performing seals and the giggling girls, where she met the man she’d kill. Not that anyone knew it then, least of all her. Smart looking fella with blonde hair who spoke soft. Spent his days driving around in a suit selling photocopiers or some such like with his blue eyes and white teeth. She smiled her sad smile, and he spoke his soft words, and they got along just fine.
She’d got along fine with lots of fellas before mind you, but she’d always end up breaking their hearts. Some said it was on account of her getting her own heart broke, and now she was taking out her pain on the rest of humanity, but me, I’d say she never really liked any of them enough to care.
Wasn’t long before he’d come around that bar every Saturday, and they’d talk and smile, and he’d walk her home. Folks said they looked like they’d always walked together, like that’s how it was meant to be.
It was in the spring, that day, and the trees were turning back to green. The plants in the gardens that looked so dead were starting to rise and look towards the sky. The grass was starting to grow again; almost ready for the first cut of the year, that day they called to say she’d not been in to work for three days. The crocuses were starting to open and brush the fields with colour when they broke down her door, and found her sitting there on the floor. Lying face down he was, the life all bled out of him across the hall with a kitchen knife in his back whilst the songbirds sang in her garden.
Her hands were all raw they said, like she’d scrubbed them all day, but she said she couldn’t get the blood off.
So they took her away, and everyone talked. Some said she’d killed him out of passion, others, that it was self-defence. Me, I think something’s broke in that pretty little head of hers, and there’s no fixing that. No one knows for sure, because she never spoke after that day. She just sits on the floor with her oh-so-wavy hair and sad smile. And they give her her medicine and ask her why but she never talks, she just stares out the window and smiles her smile.
The finishing line
1 week ago