syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
Stitch # 1
And you are staring at her red puffy eyes and the dried grey streaks of her Lancome mascara on her cheeks, wondering why she won’t take her hand away from her mouth. She appears oddly attractive under the harsh fluorescents, black party dress still clinging to her small frame, her long dark hair only slightly messed, pulled tightly up and back, secured with two dark brown sticks, her shivering sad lips peaking from behind her hand. Looking the way she does you want to forgive or just forget every harsh word.
Stitch # 3
And your knuckles are white from each time the needle pierces the skin on your forehead, the anesthesia doing nothing. The doctor works silently, but steals glances at her low cut dress as he sews you back together again. You try and glare at the doctor, but he keeps turning your head in an effort to get a better look at the wound.
Stitch # 4
And you fix your eyes on the children’s paintings lining the far side of sterile white room, their bright colors reminding you of the flash of rainbow just before the glass ashtray connected with your head. She had thrown the colorful ashtray partly because it was the closest object with any weight to it and partly because she knew you cherished it. After tearing the beautiful Renoir and Monet prints from the wall in a drunken rage one night, it was the only piece left from the trip to the Guggenhiem
Stitch # 6
And the fury is rising. You want to start screaming at her again, tell her over and over that she is the reason we are here. You want to call her childish names again, accuse her of infidelity you know to be untrue, tell her what a fucking whore she is, and give every bit of pain the ashtray and needle is giving you. Her lip quivers as she fights back a fresh set of tears and the rage and fury that was so fresh and pure a moment ago begins to subside. Now you just want to hold her and tell her the lie that says everything is going to be alright. You try a smile that is suppose to let her know, it’s no big deal, no one is to blame, but as fresh tears spill down her cheeks you know she didn’t get it.
Stitch # 8
And the doctor is blotting the gash with white gauze trapped between a pair of stainless steel tweezers that look a lot like scissors. The sight of the scarlet reminds you of pulling your fingers from your head, surprised to find your blood pooling in your palm. You had sat down hard, trying to get low before you blacked out. You were sure the combination of the blow to the head and all the whiskey was going to knock you out.
Stitch # 9
And you are watching a single tear roll down her pale cheek, cutting a fresh track through the gray remains of her mascara. You close your eyes and you can see her bare feet crossing the short distance between you, dodging the broken class on your hardwood floor, and already gone form angry to concerned. You can almost feel her lifting the back of your head, and saying;
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Baby, you’ve got blood in your eye.
I’m so fucking sorry.
You try and remember the feel of her wet cheek against your own as she helped you to your feet, her whispering in your ear how much she loves you, how she didn’t mean it, how fucking sorry she is, but the throbbing in your head and cold needle and hollow room are making it difficult to think of anything else.
Stitch # 11
And you are trying to remember what you had said that started the fight. So much has happened in the last two hours you can’t recall the exact words. Even so, you are sure it was something your broken and drunken mind thought was funny, but in reality was just brutal and cruel. Whatever it was, you regret having said it.
Stitch # 12
And the good doctor is finally finished. As he attaches the bandage and begins to tell you how to care for the injury you stare into her brown eyes and try the “no one is to blame” smile again. This time she gives a goofy little snort and a smile that is more relief than humorous. You hop off the table and put your arm around her slender waist, feeling the outline of her underwear beneath the thin dress. You both ignore the doctor as he calls after you and walk out of the small room staring into each other’s eyes, knowing that for the moment, all is forgiven.
And you are staring at her red puffy eyes and the dried grey streaks of her Lancome mascara on her cheeks, wondering why she won’t take her hand away from her mouth. She appears oddly attractive under the harsh fluorescents, black party dress still clinging to her small frame, her long dark hair only slightly messed, pulled tightly up and back, secured with two dark brown sticks, her shivering sad lips peaking from behind her hand. Looking the way she does you want to forgive or just forget every harsh word.
Stitch # 3
And your knuckles are white from each time the needle pierces the skin on your forehead, the anesthesia doing nothing. The doctor works silently, but steals glances at her low cut dress as he sews you back together again. You try and glare at the doctor, but he keeps turning your head in an effort to get a better look at the wound.
Stitch # 4
And you fix your eyes on the children’s paintings lining the far side of sterile white room, their bright colors reminding you of the flash of rainbow just before the glass ashtray connected with your head. She had thrown the colorful ashtray partly because it was the closest object with any weight to it and partly because she knew you cherished it. After tearing the beautiful Renoir and Monet prints from the wall in a drunken rage one night, it was the only piece left from the trip to the Guggenhiem
Stitch # 6
And the fury is rising. You want to start screaming at her again, tell her over and over that she is the reason we are here. You want to call her childish names again, accuse her of infidelity you know to be untrue, tell her what a fucking whore she is, and give every bit of pain the ashtray and needle is giving you. Her lip quivers as she fights back a fresh set of tears and the rage and fury that was so fresh and pure a moment ago begins to subside. Now you just want to hold her and tell her the lie that says everything is going to be alright. You try a smile that is suppose to let her know, it’s no big deal, no one is to blame, but as fresh tears spill down her cheeks you know she didn’t get it.
Stitch # 8
And the doctor is blotting the gash with white gauze trapped between a pair of stainless steel tweezers that look a lot like scissors. The sight of the scarlet reminds you of pulling your fingers from your head, surprised to find your blood pooling in your palm. You had sat down hard, trying to get low before you blacked out. You were sure the combination of the blow to the head and all the whiskey was going to knock you out.
Stitch # 9
And you are watching a single tear roll down her pale cheek, cutting a fresh track through the gray remains of her mascara. You close your eyes and you can see her bare feet crossing the short distance between you, dodging the broken class on your hardwood floor, and already gone form angry to concerned. You can almost feel her lifting the back of your head, and saying;
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Baby, you’ve got blood in your eye.
I’m so fucking sorry.
You try and remember the feel of her wet cheek against your own as she helped you to your feet, her whispering in your ear how much she loves you, how she didn’t mean it, how fucking sorry she is, but the throbbing in your head and cold needle and hollow room are making it difficult to think of anything else.
Stitch # 11
And you are trying to remember what you had said that started the fight. So much has happened in the last two hours you can’t recall the exact words. Even so, you are sure it was something your broken and drunken mind thought was funny, but in reality was just brutal and cruel. Whatever it was, you regret having said it.
Stitch # 12
And the good doctor is finally finished. As he attaches the bandage and begins to tell you how to care for the injury you stare into her brown eyes and try the “no one is to blame” smile again. This time she gives a goofy little snort and a smile that is more relief than humorous. You hop off the table and put your arm around her slender waist, feeling the outline of her underwear beneath the thin dress. You both ignore the doctor as he calls after you and walk out of the small room staring into each other’s eyes, knowing that for the moment, all is forgiven.
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