Debts Rendered

It hung in the air tangled with thick steam as the high pitched whistle subtly roared into the void of their domain. Red crept up the sides from the incinerating ground beneath as the stainless steel found an immediate transformation. Tremors took it back and forth as the rattling picked up only to fade deep into the background. But then an instance of silence befell them immediately. And Then immediately, POP! PSSSHH!

The lid from the boiling pot found its way airborne as it landed on the counter spinning and tapping. Sending a screeching sounds that echoed violently against the barren sterile walls.

And when the dust cleared it was not just the lid that was displaced and disheveled. As her body lay contorted up against the slight dusty vinyl floors. His shadow blanketed her body as his self-disgust brooded over her now unconscious form.

The scene flickered in his head with a nostalgic overlay that transported him momentarily. For he could only see her. His mum. Blood drying quickly about the corner of her mouth as he peered through the slit in the door to the kitchen. Her yellow polka dotted dress half ripped as he watched her left leg twitch in and out. The way he could never see her face or his. Just black oxfords stepping over her crippled body unconcerned. Tracing toward often the mini bar and in other cases the back door with a fag in hand and not a regret in the world.

But as he blinked a few more times whilst the sweat trickled down his face he could see there was no yellow dress. He only saw his fiancé. The ring newly minted with a shine that made it seem still on a mannequin. Her hair was cut short and pressed with an iron, a mini war she fought with herself in front the mirror. likely having dark memories of it being used to burn her for reasons she would still never come to know. Her black and white gown better resembled a pool of dark red blood floating in clouds and potentially a void to another dimension where her skull was intact and her attempt at Wednesday night pasta not met with “just the wrong day”. 

So as the pot continued to erupt volcanically in the background he considered a few things. All of which were thoughts typical of him. Thoughts he would often argue weren’t his. Thoughts he’d conveniently and cunningly fold up and place into a little box to give to her in a well laid out excuse for why she was the demons under his bed.

But in the end maybe it was a touch of fate. Maybe the exhaustion of fabrication. Maybe it was an otherworldly correction in the form of a slightly inconceivable twitch in the opposites direction. But with all the Calm of the seconds before a storm. He turned and stepped over her once more. He turned the stove off. Steadily replaced the lid. And he drew from the adjacent cupboard a glass. He promptly filled it with vodka. And promptly coated the inside of his mouth in quick motion that burned some of his demons on the way down.

But then finally he looked back. Back to the light as he began to walk toward it. Through the half broke screen. Through the glass door. And Onto the metallic balcony where’d he’d often find himself peering off into the mind of his former selves. Contemplating the inexplicable as the fag burned dangerously in the evening light. But this time there was no lighter. No smoke. Just a subtle slick of water underneath his trainers as he stepped on. Slipping. And chasing his demons on the way down to the pavement. 12 stories below.