(nothing new to write today, so here's a repost of something i wrote somewhere else - part of a "finish the story" story.)
...
alexandra pressed snooze for the final time. she brushed away the cigarette ashes from the sheets and the remains of a fucked up dream from the corners of her eyes. she coughed four times and scratched herself.
a neat pile of twenty dollar bills sat on the milkcrate by the bed. written on the back of the ATM receipt: "keep the change luv - macy (the doc) ps. don't call me"
"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT"
atlanta was no different to her than los angeles. the air left the same foul sheen on everything it touched. (but it never occurred to alexandra that she should stop smoking.) and the people, fake and delusional, stuck to her like the genital sores she caught from george. that he caught from macy.
alexandra clenched her fists stuffed with the twenty dollar bills and screamed until her face turned red, then purple. "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT." she kicked the milkcrate, twice, jumped on it, twice, and threw the money with all her weight at the lamp in the corner of the room. dissatisfied with the anemic destructive force of paper, she picked up the lamp and smashed the telephone repeatedly, as if to drive a stake through the heart of the floor.
on cue, the telephone rang.
the effect of a ringing telephone is no different than an alarm clock: it reminds us that reality is looking for us on the other side. alexandra stopped and absorbed her renewed self-awareness. she stared at the telephone (shattered lamp parts hanging by wire still wrapped around her wrist), and watched how the receiver would jump a fraction of an inch with each ring.
"hi this is nicholas and alexandra, leave a message after the beep. and if you're calling about the mustang we sold it so don't leave a message. umm. okay. (beep)"
"alex. answer the fucking phone. it's nick. george got parole and he's leaving los angeles. he's coming to atlanta, alex. (pause) look just fucking call me back if you get this. i'm at work."
alexandra continued to breathe heavily like a jogger suffering through an atlanta august. she didn't call nick.
she called macy.
...
alexandra pressed snooze for the final time. she brushed away the cigarette ashes from the sheets and the remains of a fucked up dream from the corners of her eyes. she coughed four times and scratched herself.
a neat pile of twenty dollar bills sat on the milkcrate by the bed. written on the back of the ATM receipt: "keep the change luv - macy (the doc) ps. don't call me"
"FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT"
atlanta was no different to her than los angeles. the air left the same foul sheen on everything it touched. (but it never occurred to alexandra that she should stop smoking.) and the people, fake and delusional, stuck to her like the genital sores she caught from george. that he caught from macy.
alexandra clenched her fists stuffed with the twenty dollar bills and screamed until her face turned red, then purple. "FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT." she kicked the milkcrate, twice, jumped on it, twice, and threw the money with all her weight at the lamp in the corner of the room. dissatisfied with the anemic destructive force of paper, she picked up the lamp and smashed the telephone repeatedly, as if to drive a stake through the heart of the floor.
on cue, the telephone rang.
the effect of a ringing telephone is no different than an alarm clock: it reminds us that reality is looking for us on the other side. alexandra stopped and absorbed her renewed self-awareness. she stared at the telephone (shattered lamp parts hanging by wire still wrapped around her wrist), and watched how the receiver would jump a fraction of an inch with each ring.
"hi this is nicholas and alexandra, leave a message after the beep. and if you're calling about the mustang we sold it so don't leave a message. umm. okay. (beep)"
"alex. answer the fucking phone. it's nick. george got parole and he's leaving los angeles. he's coming to atlanta, alex. (pause) look just fucking call me back if you get this. i'm at work."
alexandra continued to breathe heavily like a jogger suffering through an atlanta august. she didn't call nick.
she called macy.
gimmesatisfaction:
Do we get more? I'm curious about this alexandra, and this shady macy character. And what's George got to do with all this? Anyhowzie, I'm intrigued.