Like the second hand of a clock, it moved, stopping for a moment and starting again in a perfect rythym. Tick. Tock. I heard a loud dripping noise echoing behind me, out of time with both the ticking of the clock and the drops of water that were falling from the rail.
"What?" I asked.
Behind me, someone sighed. "Pheidi," he said patiently, "It's a metaphor." My name wasn't Pheidi, but I turned around anyway and looked into his burning red eyes.
"I'm not Pheidi," I said, "And your eyes."
"My eyes?" he mocked.
"They're not real. They're just contacts."
He seemed to find this incredibly amusing. I couldn't see his eyes behind the contacts. "What color are my eyes today?" He had asked my that before, and I had answered wrong, and what had happened? He asked for a reward. But I gave him nothing, because if I gave him something I would have acknowledged that I had lost.
"Is this really a metaphor?" I asked, squirming away from him. He was pushing me up against the railing and kissing my neck. "Stop that," I whispered. "Stop it. You b*****d, stop it."
He laughed, but didn't stop. "You're a stupid girl. This isn't a goddamn metaphor. Maybe." His fingertips left bruises on my arms and I watched as they began to turn to rotted holes in my skin. He stuck a finger inside one of the openings almost sensuously. I could feel his fingernail scraping at the inside of my arm, touching the bone and the marrow and the muscle and then through to the other side, digging into me like a worm. A long, incoherant yowl escaped my lips, like the cry of an animal, high and horrified. "Pheidi," he said, "Pheidi, what color are my eyes today, eh?"
"Not like this," I moaned, "Please, gods. Not this."
"Answer the question, then," he urged. And the he gestured behind me, and I craned my neck around and saw the haze, half mist and half smoke, consuming the great sea below the railing. Below, there were ships of ever shape and size, sailboats and motorboats, in white and red, against the grayed blue of the ocean. I could not hear the sound of the tide nor could I see waves: it was as if the sea was stagnant as a shallow puddle rather than deep and turbulent as the ocean should be.
He spun me around to face the sea and dug his fingers into my skin again and they pressed through the flesh and remained inside of my arm, and suddenly there was no escape from him. He led me over to the side and wiggled his fingers in mockery, and he stopped before an old pair of binoculars attached to the rail. "It's already paid for," he said, and not knowing what else to do, I pressed my face against them and inhaled deeply, and the smell of them was so familiar that I knew instantly that the last person to use them must have been a smoker as well.
"What color are my eyes, Pheidi?"
"Ash," I whispered. "They're the color of ash. Everything is ******** ash."
And behind me, he chuckled, and I felt his fingers begin to fall apart inside of my arms like paper in fire.
His old guitar sits in the corner
like a lover tossed aside
color slightly faded from years of caresses
strings straying from the tight confines
of tuning pegs wound too tight
His memories sits, covered in dust
silent music etched
worn wood and metal
that only he can hear
His old guitar sits in the corner
waiting for his hands to return
sinonyx generated a random number between
1 and 100 ...
“Take it from me nothing good comes from the quiet ones.”
I looked up from my book and stared at the man sitting across from me on the train. “Excuse me?”
“The quiet ones laddie. They've always got something to hide. Always watching you.” He smiled an 'cat ate the canary grin' before standing up to stretch.
I put my book back in my book bag, and slouched forward in my seat. “Now is it all women or just the quite ones?” I said giving him my best curious look.
“All women are up to something, but at least the talkative ones let you know it. No sneaking about for them,” The train slowed reaching the station as the man started for the door, “Nothing good my boy, nothing good."
I smiled watching him exit, “Yep the quite ones.”