Hello everyone! Now, give me a minute to explain myself. This is my first ever attempt at drabble as well as first time using a random word generator. I always thought it would be an interesting technique to use for our favourite Murderesses, so I figured I'd give it a go.
Now, give me a minute to explain myself. This is my first ever attempt at drabble as well as first time using a random word generator. I always thought it would be an interesting technique to use for our favourite Murderesses, so I figured I'd give it a go.
Now as far as I'm aware, drabble is limited to 100 words. All these little vignettes are less then a hundred...except the last one which is exactly 100. Lucky!
Feel free to review blah blah blah...just remember I'm new at this.
May do more for the others, unless you guys think this is uber-suckage.
That pop. That sticky, sickly burst of pink. The slimy smirk that followed as Bernie spat the wad of plastic cud onto her nice clean coffee table. It was all but a tangible validation of her resentment towards him.
She couldn't stomach it. Another night of his slick retellings; the witty and clever Bernie's Bootleg Bar. Flicking his grimy 100 dollar bills, not crisp nor clean, but oily and dirty from the prints of many paws. It sickened her.
Baloney. All of it. The barking of his boozing buddies thinking she was out of earshot, fixing their meals like the perfect little housewife. Bernie chewed his gum, chuckling boorishly, open mouthed. So he had an active social life with those little floozies down at the bar? Huh. Sure. He couldn't even get it up.
Purely a concurrence of sorts between them. His side of the bed, riddled with gum wrappers; the bedside table a smear of hardened globs, whilst her side would remain pristine. A testament to the perfect subservient spouse she was; neatly framed photos alongside her elegant pearl earrings and her grandmothers clock. A bubble of pink. Right there, on the corner of her table. Bernie could never stick to an agreement.
That's what she was to him. A nurse maid. Someone to wipe the corners of his mouth when he ate, to flutter about the house like a social butterfly when his friends were over. The perfect charade. She never did hand him the towel he asked for as he threw up the last hundred drinks of that night; she merely watched her patient suffer, his head firmly in the toilet bowl.
Bernie was always a gambler. Once upon a time, she was dazzled by his clever fingers, dealing the lusty red and shady black of the cards to her soft hands. She scrubbed the remains of another failed dinner with the aluminum scourer, her fingertips puckering from the grimy water festering in the sink. She knew where he was. It was 9:30. He would be out gambling their life away, as always.
She didn't need to hear it. The meddling of his 'friends' calling him out all hours of the night. She had worked hard on keeping him tonight. Although he wouldn't notice the placement of the candles, the delicate folding of the napkins, the extra pout in her stained red lips. He slammed the door. 'Quit meddling in my business' he would yell. Yes, because nothing was ever theirs. It was always his.
At first, she was attracted to his mind. The sharp wit that carved all tensions away. Like the plumes of smoke that rose around their usual table, his mind, the fluidity of his thoughts. Now, she did all the thinking. Glancing across at his snoring form, hanging unceremoniously over the couch with a bottle of bootlegger's gold in his grasp, gum capping the bottle in lieu of a cork. She crossed her arm in thought, wondering if anyone ever saw him like she did. Unconscious; devoid of all thought. No. Because Bernie the 'legend' could hold in liquor.
He called her his sunshine once. Her eyes lighting up like sunbeams that came upon dawn, chasing away the darkness. Of course, he was drunk when he said that. Now the only dawn she could awake to every morning was one where dew drops glazed her vision; sunbeams burning a hole into his back as he popped his gum, cigar ash singing the graying carpet as he tapped it to the floor.
The blood splatter painting their crème living room in scarlet, the ivory fragments of skull peered through his destroyed temple, the deep flecks of crimson jarring against her pale blue Laundromat uniform. She smirked, just as he had done so many times before. He was nothing but a body. Execution style. 5'11. Dark hair. Blue Eyes. He was now nothing more than facts, statistics to be fed to the hungry beasts that were the press. His popping of the gum was an unpleasant sound; although hers, the popping of her shoulder from the recoil of the double barrel, was satisfying.
Well, it was a fun little exercise for me. Regardless of the dodginess. I know...Shutup ok! *cries*
Reviews are welcome.