| Pastel Suicide |
[Nov. 3rd, 2018|05:24 pm] |
A warm, beautiful sunday at the mall. Rays of light play in the fountain, creating small colorful rainbows all around. The crowd is chattering and laughing. Smell of popcorn and corn dogs and celebration is in the air. I'm holding the pink balloon the woman gave to me by the entrance. It's a lovely pastel pink. It might even be my favourite. I gaze up and blink, as the light is so bright its almost blinding, even through the sea-green moisaic windows. Suddenly the crowd gasps and it feels like the air has gone cold and the colors have washed away to monochromatic matte. I see something move in a strange manner from the corner of my eye. As I turn around, the man has already placed the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Its a loud noise, exactly like something out of a Hollywood movie, I recall. So they do strive for a realistic approach. The man slowly falls to the floor and I can see through the hole in the back of his head. Again, just like I would expect it to be, edited nicely in a film. The crowd has turned into a thick wool, covering all exits of the mall. I feel my stomach churn, my head fills with a strange darkness and theres a bit of red on my coat. I would really like to get away, but the worst thing is - I don't remember where I parked my car. |
|
|
| Maybe. Probably. |
[Nov. 3rd, 2018|05:23 pm] |
There's just the humming of the electricity lines and the crickets in the night. The city noise far away, scraping of metal, teeth grinding and muffled cries of somebody I just met. Maybe an animal in the darkness, eyes shining yellow staring at the headlight and everything just moves on its own in the wind, but see, out here it's nice. There's a pub where everyone just goes to because apart from the smell of tires rubbing against heated tar and the hellish noise coming from the factory that sometimes sounds like a marching band of sad gnomes, there's nothing important, really. And everyone has run out of jokes, at least no one is laughing anymore or maybe I never had a sense of humour, you see. Probably. Maybe. It got really quiet. And everyone has locked their doors, modems hissing in a soft choir with the fridges, and the spluttering of the sewerage, and the beeps and the buzzes and the ticking and the crieking and the snoring on and on and on into another circle of hell.
Just another bump in the dark when you were somewhat asleep. It's nothing. Probably. Maybe. There's nothing behind the curtains, honestly, see. It's just the dream you were having of the town and the pub and the marching band of the sad gnomes and the buzzing and the crieking. Don't look. It's just you. Probably. Maybe. And then there's the part where nobody is laughing anymore, but I think it's because they never had a sense of humour, you see. Vertebrae softly breaking apart, warm, sticky bubbles gathering in small pools for their own little adventure and the world goes quiet, as if the rolling cameras and the lights suddently went out of commision. The buzzing and crieking and humming and ticking and beeping in that one circle of hell. It stops. The curtain is closed and the sky is dark and quiet and there's maybe a stray cat somewhere. Probably. Maybe, but it's oh so nice here. |
|
|