The
room was a shotgun spray of glass shards, all centered around one half
destroyed bottle of Jack. Its opaque shrapnel was embedded in everything: the
rugged and torn wallpaper that had been haphazardly painted over in some parts
with a deep, deep red; the carpet that had been stained from the weathering of
generations –deep browns, concerning maroons, and other suspicious yellows and
greens- that were so long ago most didn’t care to remember anymore; and the
flesh of the woman who’d been hit, her pale green eyes staring at the ceiling
above. The empty bottle lay in a pool of her blood, like a gleaming glass
castle in a scarlet moat.
Jealousy
The
frame was plain black, metallic and matte, making a perfect rectangle around
the blackness that had once been a scene of two lovers. The glass cover was now
shattered, a large crack going down the middle like lightning in the inkiness
of a midnight thunderstorm. The top and bottom of the frame was layered,
smothered in weeks upon weeks of dust, except for the sides. Both the left and
the right of it was still shiny and full of clear fingerprints, being no
stranger to late-night white-knuckled grips.
Happiness
The
book was plain for the most part: white cover; paperback spine; no intriguing
design or eye catching patterns. Something about it though, this seemingly
boring novel, drew you in and grabbed your attention. Maybe it was the way the
sunlight gleamed off the golden lettering, giving it a warm feeling aura. Maybe
it was the natural old book smell that drifted off its pages, throwing your
brain back in time to late nights of reading and relaxation. Or maybe it was
just the feel of its smooth matte cover and sun warmed pages.
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