You cant bring yourself to move after you get home. Finally, half undressed before the mirror, you examine the smooth lines of your face. You look dead.
In the mug with your joint toothbrush, there is a blade wrapped in butter paper.
In your panties and your camisole, you brace into the porcelain sink.
A door opens and closes somewhere,flicking your gaze up, you see his ginger bearded reflection drawing closer.
You press the blade onto your skin, deliberately dragging it towards yourself.
Watch the splash of red on the white cool platform,
The hands of your man smooth, the rugged knuckles that brush up your hips, tickles from wisps of hair brushing across his knobby bare legs. He murmurs little things in the tiny sliver of skin between your silk camisole and your brown hair.
The blood is pooling in the basin, the cheap blade is grinning obscenely from the drain under the dripping faucet.
He doesnt notice the limp bleeding wrist, any more than you notice the whiskey in his breath
There is premonition in the air, devastation is knocking on the shatterproof windows in your furnished apartment on the hundred and twelfth floor.
You mechanically open the medicine cabinet, draw out a gauge and stem the bleeding.
Only after the warmth trickles down your thigh you realise he had been fucking you.
Mildly surprised, you look down at the panties bunched up near your ankles.
There is a drop of blood on it, you turn your head, the calander in the corner has a circle in red.
You think of the sticky cum coating your thighs, and step into the blue plastic tub.
He has gone back to bed, you can hear gentle snores.
When the water hits your face, its shockingly warm. You had left the geyser on. You let it run, slowly sitting down under the fizzing shower head, tilting your head back.
Your body relaxes, the blood and the semen runs down into the drain in a whirlpool. You miss the silence, unweighed by the elegant engagement ring.
For a second, there is an unsure fluster in your dormant heart. You sink down further into the water, mute in your isolation. His snores seem louder in the echo of the murky water. You wonder where the escape is.
Reflection only makes it worse.
There buzzes your phone, breaking the collapse of your reverie.
You drag yourself up, water droplets racing down your skin and pooling onto the mat.
With water-wrinkled fingetips you receive your phone- the deathly blue light that bathes the dead house.
Your voice is muted, and there is only the steady scratch of a pencil as you write.
Few minutes later, in a flimsy shirt you sit cross-legged on a mahagony bench, the computer screen bathes the furnished room in an ethereal light. Youre typing steadily, the east window is open. The bandage around your wrist flutters merrily.
There is a small glass of sherry beside your notebook. You rub your forehead with three manicured nails, keep working.
Another day passes.