"Bound by contempt."
Dolores, an emaciated, beautiful woman, her style still clinging to the flapper rage of a decade and a half earlier, had just finished the "t" of "contempt," her own message written on the sidewalk of a busy street in Buffalo, New York. She used chalk. Her print on the world would surely fade away with enough time. She smiled at her words, then turned and strolled into the dark, bustling hotel.
She looked out of the open window, watching the many automobiles and bodies fly past her. She poured her forth glass of Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, but poured this one slowly. Placing her nose far into the glass, the end of it just above the bitter liquid, it slightly evaporated, burning her eyes. She took in a slow, deep breath, filling her lungs with beautiful poison. After taking down the contents of the glass in little under a moment, she poured herself another.
Dolores slowly, carefully, walked through her shady hotel room. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, she produced a framed photograph. It was of a couple, the woman was her, but more robust, sober, and fewer wrinkles. The man was in his late twenties, with dark hair and a squared jaw. He sported a "wife-beater," a little hat tipped to the left, and his pants were the bottom half of a full outfit worn by marines. His massive arms were wrapped around her, hugging her.
Both forgotten figures smiled at her.
She made way back to the window with a quickened pace. Peeking her head out, she could see her one contribution to the city already fading away from footprints.
She finished her drink in two large gulps, then lightly tossed the picture out the window, it's frame and glass falling to pieces, settling next to her worn message. She pours one last drink, this time sucking it down a moment after it settles in the glass.
She grabs the crowbar waiting for her on the counter, then fades out of the room, leaving the door open that reads "203."
Entering the elevator, with a somewhat concealed weapon, she tells the bellboy to take her to the eighth floor. He complies.
Scanning the hallway, she finds room "803." She brandishes her crowbar, using it to knock.
A large man swings the door open, his eyes darting from the woman's face to the crowbar in her hand.
"Can I.... help you, ma'am?"
Dolores lets out a tiny laugh.
"I doubt anyone can..."
With a quick swing, Dolores plants the crowbar between the man's legs, sending him to the floor. The wind is knocked out of him, he cannot scream.
She walks to the window, shattering it with iron. She leans over, peeking out onto the street. Right below her, eight floors down, she sees her work of art.
"Perfect," she says.
The man looks up, just in time to see the sickly woman hurl herself out of his window. Moments later, a sound wave rivaling thunder penetrates everything alive and dead within a half a mile. Her skull cracks, a fracture running across her hairline, dipping down and disappearing at the bridge of her nose...
...Then her thin blood flows brilliantly out onto the sidewalk, washing contempt away...
Dolores, an emaciated, beautiful woman, her style still clinging to the flapper rage of a decade and a half earlier, had just finished the "t" of "contempt," her own message written on the sidewalk of a busy street in Buffalo, New York. She used chalk. Her print on the world would surely fade away with enough time. She smiled at her words, then turned and strolled into the dark, bustling hotel.
She looked out of the open window, watching the many automobiles and bodies fly past her. She poured her forth glass of Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, but poured this one slowly. Placing her nose far into the glass, the end of it just above the bitter liquid, it slightly evaporated, burning her eyes. She took in a slow, deep breath, filling her lungs with beautiful poison. After taking down the contents of the glass in little under a moment, she poured herself another.
Dolores slowly, carefully, walked through her shady hotel room. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, she produced a framed photograph. It was of a couple, the woman was her, but more robust, sober, and fewer wrinkles. The man was in his late twenties, with dark hair and a squared jaw. He sported a "wife-beater," a little hat tipped to the left, and his pants were the bottom half of a full outfit worn by marines. His massive arms were wrapped around her, hugging her.
Both forgotten figures smiled at her.
She made way back to the window with a quickened pace. Peeking her head out, she could see her one contribution to the city already fading away from footprints.
She finished her drink in two large gulps, then lightly tossed the picture out the window, it's frame and glass falling to pieces, settling next to her worn message. She pours one last drink, this time sucking it down a moment after it settles in the glass.
She grabs the crowbar waiting for her on the counter, then fades out of the room, leaving the door open that reads "203."
Entering the elevator, with a somewhat concealed weapon, she tells the bellboy to take her to the eighth floor. He complies.
Scanning the hallway, she finds room "803." She brandishes her crowbar, using it to knock.
A large man swings the door open, his eyes darting from the woman's face to the crowbar in her hand.
"Can I.... help you, ma'am?"
Dolores lets out a tiny laugh.
"I doubt anyone can..."
With a quick swing, Dolores plants the crowbar between the man's legs, sending him to the floor. The wind is knocked out of him, he cannot scream.
She walks to the window, shattering it with iron. She leans over, peeking out onto the street. Right below her, eight floors down, she sees her work of art.
"Perfect," she says.
The man looks up, just in time to see the sickly woman hurl herself out of his window. Moments later, a sound wave rivaling thunder penetrates everything alive and dead within a half a mile. Her skull cracks, a fracture running across her hairline, dipping down and disappearing at the bridge of her nose...
...Then her thin blood flows brilliantly out onto the sidewalk, washing contempt away...
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
edited to add, we're going to need an email address, you can either post in on journal or email me at cdgetz@hotmail.com.
sorry but the level of interest surpasses our expectations and email tools are going to be the only way we can keep track of this.
[Edited on Apr 29, 2004 6:41PM]
[Edited on Apr 29, 2004 6:44PM]