|The Aesthetic Hybridizing The Penetrated
Author: Around.about PM
It's my very own little piece of fiction, a little tale told from multiple perspectives. Maybe connected, maybe not, we'll just have to see where things take us. Rated M for language, violence, and god knows what else. All reviews welcome.Rated: Fiction M - English - Words: 872 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 11-09-09 - id: 2739807
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Blake Sanders couldn't help but feel out of place. It hadn't been his plan to come here, to be with this girl, to get so drunk he couldn't unbutton his pants, and it most certainly was not his fault that this girl was now shrieking like a banshee. I mean she had wanted him. Grinding against him in the room before, the loud music ringing in their ears. The smoke, the noise, the heat. Those were to blame, not him.
"I'm leaving," he announced abruptly. She looked at him, red eyed, indifferent. Surely it wasn't her first time, he thought, but even if it was she had led him into the room. She pushed him on the bed. She opened her legs, and damned if he was going to feel sorry for some slut like her.
As he shut the door he pretended not to hear her sob.
Blake stumbled down the empty hall. Following the noise of a party, that had long sense spilled into the streets. Unable to contain it, the house remained empty, a testament to the debauchery of an early time. As he stepped on to the porch, and inhaled the stale night air, a cold drink was forced into his hand. It burnt his throat, and immediately he felt giddy.
But it was time to go. The party was growing old, and Blake was growing tired. Best to get home and get a few hours of sleep he thought. He pushed his way past the throngs of people, the crush of warm drunken bodies against him, he made his way to the street.
"Where," he said to himself, "is my fucking car?"
The street ran two ways. Cars jettisoned into every direction, parked in the grass, one had even wrapped itself around an ancient oak tree. Blake liked large old trees, they reminded him of his grandfather's house, and summers spent dreaming. Finally, he located a non-descript vehicle. He recognized the green leaf hanging from the rearview mirror, and the cracked windshield. When purchasing the car from a used lot he had noticed little more than a small chip in the pane of glass, but time and the weather had made it into a long and meandering smirk, that made Blake think of his mother. Blake had never cared for his mother. Climbing inside, everything seemed to spin. The car suddenly seemed much warmer than it was moments before. And next thing he knew, Blake was vomiting.
And there, on a trashy street. In an unassuming car. Blake Sanders, lays passed out. Vomit seeping into his freshly cleaned carpet, and he hasn't a care in the world.
Vanessa McCullough hadn't planned on much of anything. A quick run to the gas station, maybe grab a diet coke, a pack of cigarettes, something to get her out of the house. Something to get her away from Ray. They had been dating for a few months now, and she guessed he was an OK guy. Just not one you really wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
Her red Mazda crept down Washington Street. She could feel the weak vibrations of her car, as she sped along. It seemed to be waiting. Ready to explode, and to ruin the perfectly fine monotony of her life. The energy seemed to be seeping up from the ground beneath her. And she knew. She had to go.
A left onto Texoma Boulevard. A right onto Shingles Street. Head north for five miles. Speed up, grinding her way up the on-ramp.
It was 7:15 PM. It was Tuesday. And Vanessa McCullough would not be marrying Ray.
A young Hispanic woman stands alone in a seemingly empty apartment. She was only wearing a cheap white bra, and some plain black slacks. Before her stands a rickety ironing board, she'd purchased half price. On the ironing board sat a crisp, warm, white shirt. She shudders as she brings it around her shoulders, the warmth soothing her tired frame. She fumbles with the buttons. The shirt is securely strapped to her.
She hadn't planned on going to the store that day. But she had run out of formula, and the baby was getting fussy. A quick trip down stairs, leave the baby with the kind old woman, run around the corner, and purchase said can of formula. Unfortunately though, these things rarely have a way of working out, as Juanita Ortega would soon find out.
Her flat black shoes walked at an even pace. Her joints ached, and she hasn't eaten a full meal in a several days. Juanita walked into the local grocer's market. And what she sees there would not make sense of several days, but all she did know is that she would never get that stain out of her freshly ironed shirt.
A/N: Well here it is my own little piece of fiction. Oh and the title's gibberish, got any suggestions? I'm not sure if i'll stick with the current formatting. I'll have to play around. Oh and reviews will make me much more likely to update, especially helpful ones.