The following is a work of fiction that I started on another blog elswheres on teh interweb. Considering my craptastic mood I thought I'd share. It's very, very influenced (read: basically ripped off from) my favorite writter, Frank Miller. It's my attempt at starting something Sin-City-ish.
Yes, I very much write in metaphor on the rare occasion I DO write. I wrote this a long time ago. But it's just as appropriate today as it was then.
Please note: this IS a work of fiction. Any resemblence to persons living or dead or any other bald-headed, goateed piece of shit that smokes Camel Wides is purely coincidental. Will this ever be added to? I have no fucking clue. Depends on if i get any death threats for not doing so, I guess.
"The first thing to hit me is the smell.
Even as the smoke from a Camel Wide clenched between my teeth wafts up into my face and nostrils, there's no mistaking that smell.
I set the beers she sent me to get after we were done for the third time on the dresser by the bedroom door. It had been years. Damn near a decade. And we made up for lost time by running ourselves out of sweat and kisses and words and juices and booze and smokes.
I step closer and chew harder on the butt of the Camel. The stench of blood is overpowering and my gut tightens and balls up and I suppress a gag as I feel vomit rise up in my gullet and burn my nostrils in tandem with the cigarette. I try to tell myself that it's that making my eyes well up with tears. Wouldn't be the first time I lied to myself.
I choke it down and step to the window, drawing back a curtain with my hand. My world goes black and white as the streetlights illuminate her naked form, lifeless and still as a stone, lying face up on a bed of crumpled sheets and blood. She always had a beautiful smile. I try in vain to fathom why someone would want to carve a new one on her throat.
I curse under my breath. I've got a past. I barely escaped said past. And now, the love of my life, so recently returned, lays dead before me, with enough of my DNA inside her and under her fingernails to implicate me in this and put me away for good this time.
Soon enough even the Camel smells and tastes like copper. I stab it out, clumsy and awkward as a teenager, into the over-full ashtray on the endtable beside the bed. A noise from the kitchen, boot-soles scuffing against linoleum, and I reach for a gun that just isn't there. Hasn't been, hell, haven't even owned one, for five years. Not since the accident. Not since I told myself never again. That I'd left that life behind me for good and wouldn't need one. Not ever again. Wouldn't be the first time I lied to myself.
Ol' Silent is there waiting for me in my jacket though. And she practically jumps into my hands, cold and cruel. She hisses as I pull all six inches of her with a jerk from her sheath. I can feel more than hear the careful foot-falls of the killer coming down the hall. And I waste a few precious seconds saying goodbye.
"Why?" the word barely escapes my lungs as I lean over her and push a few stray strands of hair away from her colorless face. I kiss her full and deep and longingly, and the tears well up again when she doesn't kiss back and all I taste is cold and empty when just an hour ago she tasted warm and wet and full of life.
I feel him very near now. And I force myself to choke it all down once again. Silently I move to the bedroom door to greet him. It's showtime. And if I'm lucky, I may just get an answer from this bastard. Yeah. That's it. I'll leave him alive enough to tell me what in the blue Hell is going on.
Wouldn't be the first time I lied to myself.."