Short Story - The clouds above the mist: Prologue

I sit on the toilet seat, watching the smoke spiraling upwards, snaking its way out of the rectangular window. The smoke highlights the sun rays streaking in, making them seem stronger, powerful, amplifying.

The smell of burnt plastic overpowers me. I get up just enough from the seat, and flick my wrist to throw the half-burnt cigarette butt in the water below; an action perfected over time. I hear the hissing sound from underneath, and like always, get up just enough again, so the smoke doesn’t end up touching me from underneath. I have my weird insignificant rituals.

I cleanse myself. Wash my face, lean in towards the mirror above the sink, staring directly at the dark brown smoky pupils staring back at me, gazing, questioning, doubting, lifeless, undone. I push myself back; look down at my calloused knuckles and close my eyes, afraid to look up again.

Breathe. It’s okay. I can do this, I tell myself. I have to do this. I open my eyes and grab the glass of vodka. Bottoms up. Glass back on the counter. The clanking sound reverberates in the tiled square area like a separate entity, forcing me awake. The undiluted liquid burns my throat, spreads like fire within, scorching through whatever's left behind.

I turn around, making sure I don’t look at the mirror, put on my trusty pair of denims, and step out into the room.

“Are you ready?” She asks, putting out her cigarette in my rotating silver ash-tray. Her head on the pillow, naked body gleaming from the summer heat, the perfect curves, the perfect woman.

I sit down beside her, nod, and smile.

Her eyes. They always took me away. Away from everything I found discomforting, from everything that distressed me. Not a part of her that I ever doubted; outside, within, and inside, where she kept herself hidden beneath her masks, never knowing i could see. I made sure it was always that way. She could never know. Never will.

She smiles that smile. The one that sends blood rushing inside me, making it’s way through each and every fleshy tunnel. Red hot.

It’s an auto-reflex, i think. I know better though. She never could see my variations. She could never handle them. She wouldn’t like what’s underneath the calm, decent, safety. I was extra careful about this. Her emotional fragility, always stopping me. Too close inside, and she’d fall apart. Something I could never do to her.

“Let’s go” I say.

She pushes herself upwards, bending her left elbow, grabbing my arm for support; holding me. I smell her, letting her scent in, raw and sweet; an intoxicating perfume made from her own flesh, devouring it, embracing it, trying to store it inside. I feel her skin against mine. Soft, sweaty, comforting, natural, like an extension to my own.

I breathe, letting go of the anguish within.

I feel the cold metal against my temple; hear her pull the trigger, hear the click.

---

@OriginalWorks
@welovesteemit

Source: Picture my own.