A scream echoed in the small apartment, and a vase crashed against the wall. Paper was strewn across the floor, as were pens and pencils. “Nothing!” She screamed to the picture on the wall, “FOUR YEARS AND I’VE STILL COME UP WITH NOTHING!” Her black eyes clouded over with anger and desperation. “Four years, honey, and i’ve got nothing to show for it. Not a thing!”
She angrily threw herself on the white minimalist couch her late husband had bought her. She looked around her apartment with misty eyes. From the bay windows in the living room, the small vintage chairs she’d loved but threw off the rest the rest of the room. The beautiful paintings that hung around the apartment, some bought, others homemade by him. Her late husband had a thing for the minimalist style, and that filled the majority of their home.
She stared out the glass windows and sobbed bitterly. “All you’ve done for me John and I have nothing to show for it. I’m a failure! I haven’t finished a single book. Not one. All you did for me was in vain, John. I was never what you thought I was, what you thought I could amount to.”
I’m nothing now. You overestimated me and by abilities. You saw something that you thought I couldn’t see. But you were wrong in the end weren’t you? There was nothing.” She slammed her fists into the side of her head, yanking at the black locks that were there. “Why did you do this to me, John? I’m not the woman that had the confidence you wanted. That you thought I had. I have nothing! I am nothing.”
Angry shouts filled the room once more as she raged from one room to another. Ripping away at the books in her office, the books in the kitchen, the paintings on the walls. “I have never been what you thought I was. You believed in me, and I swallowed to too much of it! I started to believe!” Her calloused olive hands scratched at walls, and bloodied the glass on every mirror in her home.
Only when she reached her living room, where she’d began, did her rage come to a halt. Her eyes stung with tears as she looked at the painting on the wall. “You always loved her more than me didn’t you? That girl? The writer who never gave up. The strong will she had. Her intense eyes and room brightening smile.” She fell onto her knees below it, “I will never be her. You tried too hard to make me become her, when I just wasn’t.
You wanted something you should have known you’d lost so long ago. That she wasn’t coming back John. I tried to be her. For you. For us. To make you smile, to make you smile with love and joy they way you did with her. But I just wasn’t enough.”
A bitter laugh swelled in the room, she sighed, tears falling down her face. She walked almost aimlessly to the kitchen and ran her hands against the cold granite surface of her counter. It made her shiver. Then she stood in front of the table, a cold blade in hand, and set it upon it. Peice by peice, she removed her clothes. Her outer garments removed as if there were unbearable heat in the room, but her undergarments, removed as is sensual. As if for an audience.
The clothes lay beside her and her cries and wails of sorrow filled her ears, her mind, her heart. The room and the building. The table, no longer only silver but speckled with a vivid red.
*****
“Are you saying you found her like this?” asked a tall officer, looking at the even taller nervous man that stood before him. The said man nodded, sweating profusely, “Yes sir. I heard her screaming so I ran in here. I often, uh, found her crying like this since her husband died four years ago.” The officer nodded, writing notes in his notepad. “You sure you didn’t see anyone come up to her door?” The man nodded vigorously. The officer sighed, and pocketed his notepad, “Well thank you Mr. uh…”
“Fubar.”
The officer nodded and turned to walk into the apartment, “We will keep in touch.” He was stepping inside when Mr. Fubar called to him, “uh.. sir. Do you think I could have the painting?” The officer looked at him, “What are you talking about?”
“There was a painting in her liv-”
“Ah just get over here boy, don’t mess anything up.”
Mr. Fubar stuttered and moved to the door and walked into the apartment, leading him to the living room, standing in front of the painting.
An olive skinned woman was twirling in a yellow sundress in various backgrounds; meadow, seaside, and city. She bore dark intense eyes but somehow also bright; and a heart stopping smile that put stars and suns to shame. “Was that her?” the officer asked looking at the painting in front of him. Mr. Fubar ran his index finger town the long trail of a braid she wore, “Yeah, he painted it for her. This was way before they got married. When they were dating. She was so different then. I grew up with her, she was happy back then. So happy.” His voice drowning to a whisper at every word, that the officer strained to hear his words.
“She was a writer, I take it?” he asked, looking around the paper filled room. Mr. Fubar smiled sadly, also glancing around the room, his green eyes nostalgic, “Oh yes. She was very good, but she never finished a thing. She never published, but John always believed she would one day. So he gave her everything she could have asked for so she could see her dream come to life.”
“Well that is obviously shattered, now isn’t it?” the officer stated bluntly. Mr. Fubar nodded, “Yeah. I guess it is.” He started for the door, “On second thought, send that to a museum. Life missed out on her. No one should. And if its all we have left of her, it ought to be for people to share the last joy she ever had.”
“And what would that be Fubar the Philosopher?” the officer scoffed.
Mr. Fubar smiled at the floor, “Knowing that she was happy. Once.. a long, long time ago.” He glanced back, seeing his beloved Lia laying on that cold table, bloodied and scared. Mutilated by her own self hatred. Killed by her happiness lost.
Mr. Fubar stepped out and down the stairs , “A wise woman once told me Lia, you wanted something you should have known you’d lost so long ago.”
She angrily threw herself on the white minimalist couch her late husband had bought her. She looked around her apartment with misty eyes. From the bay windows in the living room, the small vintage chairs she’d loved but threw off the rest the rest of the room. The beautiful paintings that hung around the apartment, some bought, others homemade by him. Her late husband had a thing for the minimalist style, and that filled the majority of their home.
She stared out the glass windows and sobbed bitterly. “All you’ve done for me John and I have nothing to show for it. I’m a failure! I haven’t finished a single book. Not one. All you did for me was in vain, John. I was never what you thought I was, what you thought I could amount to.”
I’m nothing now. You overestimated me and by abilities. You saw something that you thought I couldn’t see. But you were wrong in the end weren’t you? There was nothing.” She slammed her fists into the side of her head, yanking at the black locks that were there. “Why did you do this to me, John? I’m not the woman that had the confidence you wanted. That you thought I had. I have nothing! I am nothing.”
Angry shouts filled the room once more as she raged from one room to another. Ripping away at the books in her office, the books in the kitchen, the paintings on the walls. “I have never been what you thought I was. You believed in me, and I swallowed to too much of it! I started to believe!” Her calloused olive hands scratched at walls, and bloodied the glass on every mirror in her home.
Only when she reached her living room, where she’d began, did her rage come to a halt. Her eyes stung with tears as she looked at the painting on the wall. “You always loved her more than me didn’t you? That girl? The writer who never gave up. The strong will she had. Her intense eyes and room brightening smile.” She fell onto her knees below it, “I will never be her. You tried too hard to make me become her, when I just wasn’t.
You wanted something you should have known you’d lost so long ago. That she wasn’t coming back John. I tried to be her. For you. For us. To make you smile, to make you smile with love and joy they way you did with her. But I just wasn’t enough.”
A bitter laugh swelled in the room, she sighed, tears falling down her face. She walked almost aimlessly to the kitchen and ran her hands against the cold granite surface of her counter. It made her shiver. Then she stood in front of the table, a cold blade in hand, and set it upon it. Peice by peice, she removed her clothes. Her outer garments removed as if there were unbearable heat in the room, but her undergarments, removed as is sensual. As if for an audience.
The clothes lay beside her and her cries and wails of sorrow filled her ears, her mind, her heart. The room and the building. The table, no longer only silver but speckled with a vivid red.
*****
“Are you saying you found her like this?” asked a tall officer, looking at the even taller nervous man that stood before him. The said man nodded, sweating profusely, “Yes sir. I heard her screaming so I ran in here. I often, uh, found her crying like this since her husband died four years ago.” The officer nodded, writing notes in his notepad. “You sure you didn’t see anyone come up to her door?” The man nodded vigorously. The officer sighed, and pocketed his notepad, “Well thank you Mr. uh…”
“Fubar.”
The officer nodded and turned to walk into the apartment, “We will keep in touch.” He was stepping inside when Mr. Fubar called to him, “uh.. sir. Do you think I could have the painting?” The officer looked at him, “What are you talking about?”
“There was a painting in her liv-”
“Ah just get over here boy, don’t mess anything up.”
Mr. Fubar stuttered and moved to the door and walked into the apartment, leading him to the living room, standing in front of the painting.
An olive skinned woman was twirling in a yellow sundress in various backgrounds; meadow, seaside, and city. She bore dark intense eyes but somehow also bright; and a heart stopping smile that put stars and suns to shame. “Was that her?” the officer asked looking at the painting in front of him. Mr. Fubar ran his index finger town the long trail of a braid she wore, “Yeah, he painted it for her. This was way before they got married. When they were dating. She was so different then. I grew up with her, she was happy back then. So happy.” His voice drowning to a whisper at every word, that the officer strained to hear his words.
“She was a writer, I take it?” he asked, looking around the paper filled room. Mr. Fubar smiled sadly, also glancing around the room, his green eyes nostalgic, “Oh yes. She was very good, but she never finished a thing. She never published, but John always believed she would one day. So he gave her everything she could have asked for so she could see her dream come to life.”
“Well that is obviously shattered, now isn’t it?” the officer stated bluntly. Mr. Fubar nodded, “Yeah. I guess it is.” He started for the door, “On second thought, send that to a museum. Life missed out on her. No one should. And if its all we have left of her, it ought to be for people to share the last joy she ever had.”
“And what would that be Fubar the Philosopher?” the officer scoffed.
Mr. Fubar smiled at the floor, “Knowing that she was happy. Once.. a long, long time ago.” He glanced back, seeing his beloved Lia laying on that cold table, bloodied and scared. Mutilated by her own self hatred. Killed by her happiness lost.
Mr. Fubar stepped out and down the stairs , “A wise woman once told me Lia, you wanted something you should have known you’d lost so long ago.”