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No Solace for the Dead  by Persephonie

"Okay, what is it?" She sounded exhausted, frustrated, placating as she leaned against the closed door, arms folded, peering at me from under one raised eyebrow  and long, blond, sweeping strands of hair fallen from her ponytail.  "I just want to say..." the words escaped my mind. What did I want to say at this moment?  I hated her?  I loved her?  I'm sorry?  "Look, Dean...." Maggie sighed as she walked to the window. She watched impatiently as her boyfriend  struggled with the matress, trying singlehandedly to push it atop the masses of furnishings, trappings and boxes of belongings flung carelessly into the bed of pick-up truck....the truck that had carried us on countless journeys to Mexico, rock concerts and served as a host to brazen, sweaty, sexy nights beneath the stars.  "I gotta go," she said. The words sounded full of some sort of new found strength and assurance.  "I just wanted to know if you want this," I told her, lifting the box into her line of vision.

Maggie's eyes softened a little as she approached me where I stood.  "God, Dean..." she sighed, taking the box from my hands. She took a few steps away and sat  in the white plastic chair.  "Figures she's take the only seat in the place," I thought.  I don't know what I expected her to say, to do.....a part of me wanted her to rip off the lid, view the various, unorganized momentos of our failed relationship and apologetically fling her arms and legs around me, vowing to never let me go.  Another part of me wanted to grabbed the damned thing and fling it at her head.  I watched her as she looked at each item.  A smile here, a sigh there, were the only gestures she offered.  I lit up the stub of remaining blunt and inhaled it, long and deep, leaning back my aching head and closing my eyes as my tension eased away with the billowing smoke cloud towards the ceiling. 

I sat on the floor and scooted to her side, grabbing a small stack of crap from the box as I hit the fading blunt once again.  Plopping the items on the floor, I spread them out, searching for God-knows-what.....something to break the silence?  I carelessly pushed the pics and ticket stubs aside and found it there....a small scrap of faded notebook paper.  She had passed me the note in Economics 101...back when I was young, full of life, full of dreams and ideals and finding myself totally enraptured by the raw, real, out-of-this-world, mind-blowing emotions of our new found fling.  I pulled out my pack of smokes and flipped open the lid, sliding one up to my mouth and lit it.  Opening the note, the haze in my head clouded out the emptyness of the room.  All I could see were the words....perfectly penned words written for me...all for me......

"eternally enslaved......

endless hoplessness.....

dangerously addicted......

spiraling out of control.......

.....with love of you"

I was jerked back into a somewhat lucid reality as the horn from the pick-up called out to her to get a move- on.  "Can I keep this one?"  The picture was the one where she was sitting on my lap, leaned back and laughing.  We were at the beach, beers and bongs in hand, rockin' out to good tunes and sharin' good times.  "Yeah...."  it was all I could say as I folded the paper back up.  Where had we gone wrong? She stood up and walked past me to open the door.  She didn't even hesitate or say good-bye....and with the click of the handle, she was gone. 

I laid back on the floor, knees bent, fingers drumming, head in a fog.  She didn't even say good-bye!!!!! My head thrashed from side to side as the betrayal, the anger, the emptyness, the silence, the fear, the aching, all of it, came to a head and burst out of me like an alien life form, Rosemary's evil spawn thing, tearing open my stomach, feeding on my body.....I grabbed the leg of the white plastic chair and flung it violently at the door she had just passed through so non-chalantly, so casually, so finally.  It bounced around and landed sideways, echoing in the emptyiness of my hollowed-out apartment. No one retaliated. No one screamed. It was just me.......me, the bare walls, the box, the chair and those **** packs of Ramen noodles that I couldn't even cook, 'cause the bitch took all of the pots and pans.

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  'No Solace for the Dead' statistics: (click to read)
Date created: May 28, 2008
Date published: May 28, 2008
Comments: 6
Word Count: 928
Times Read: 663
Story Length: 1