Torment

The choking smell of cigar and liquor tiptoes towards me at the main entrance of the house to warn me of his bad mood.

The rot and musty smell in the kitchen confirms another hungry night.

I fixate my eyes on the bedroom door and calculate how many steps I need to take to maintain the silence.

The darkness seduces his sorry ass on the couch drenched in alcohol, butt naked with his crotch traumatizing my Matisse paintings that I got from an art gallery.

I adjust to the light emitted by the passing cars and crawl my way to the bedroom, lock it and exhale relief controlling every single pound in my chest.

I step into the shower and allow the warm water to caress my skin gently and its fingers to run through the stiffness of my muscles tenderly.

Just as I am wrapping my ash-colored cotton towel that was once white around me, I hear repeated bangs on the door.

He’s awake.

The door tries to filter his toxic words to no avail so I guard my ears and close my eyes trying to destruct my mind.

Speaking of which I will need to change the doors for acoustic ones.

Taking my phone from my now tattered Louis Vuitton bag, I scroll through my music folder and play Summer Hits loud enough to bewitch me.

My mind dances to freedom with my body failing at it; bad dancer up for grabs.

I unlock my IKEA drawer and take a pack of Oreos to settle the rumbling stomach, aware of the pistol coated with dust at the corner.

Snatched from a trance, I receive an incoming call that floods me back to his insults that fuel my mind with fury.

In a snap, I hear a gunshot with my arms stretched positioned at the door holding the estranged weapon.

Finally silence.

I can now sleep.

 

Happy Reading 💚

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The Subtle Art of not Giving a F***

Image Credits to: Dmitry Ratushny

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