Nails

Apr. 6th, 2013 05:41 pm
[identity profile] just-short.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] asylum_online
This is a flash fiction I wrote about some rather dark subject matter.
For some reason the scenario and character have been bouncing around in my mind for awhile and this is just how it came out.
It's under a cut because it could be triggering to some.

   He sauntered to the doorway with the stumbling delay of a man who thought himself coy. A crushed blue can dangled from his fingertips and a smiled dripped from his lips leaving puddles of desire on the floor at his feet. A quick glance over her shoulder might have warned her away from the ketchup plated meat loaf dishes and to the grocery or library, maybe even to her bedroom if he hadn't made up his mind yet, but she had long since resigned herself to the loud summer storms of his boots on linoleum and his hardness against her in the afternoons. In a sense, she thought of herself as Queen Victoria. Lie back. Think of God's word.
   Honor thy father and mother so that thy days may be long upon the land the Lord thy God giveth thee.
   Without a flicker of recognition or fear she kept washing dishes, using her fingernails to work pieces of congealed onions off green plastic plates. Slowly, the stack of silverware and salad bowls piled up on the drying rack as his tobacco stained fingertips twisted the ends of her dark blonde hair into thin ringlets. Smelling predictably of cheap beer and pipe tobacco, his breath drifted across her cheek and out the open window, into the red summer sunset just visible over the tree line.
   She stared out blankly, fixing her gaze suddenly on a rusted nail she had left on the window sill before supper. She had absent mindedly picked it up in the gravel drive way, just beside the mail box, in the perfect spot for a stray bike or truck tire to become impaled. It was long, just over three inches, and fit perfectly in her closed palm. She had smoothed it over her fingers on her way inside and worried it in front of the tv while her mother fussed over table settings and sweet tea. The nail had been left there while she washed her hands and she had not thought of it again until that moment, when the last flickers of sunlight faded over its silhouette, casting shadows across the clean white ledge.
   Honor thy father and mother...
   His hands  wrapped around her shoulders and moved downward. Her gaze gravitated over his arms at her mother, who sat knitting in a concentrated effort not to look up.
   She turned off the water slowly, not wanting to arouse his interest, and reached for the nail just past the long faucet handles. She ran her delicate fingers over its cool, metallic assurance, as his lips met the soft of her neck at her pulse.
   Honor thy father...
   His hands moved further downward to the tempo of his lips.
   That day, there was no god.

Profile

asylum_online: (Default)
A Place to Call Home

June 2017

S M T W T F S
    123
4 5678910
11121314 151617
18192021222324
252627282930 

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 25th, 2017 08:35 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios