a horrified shadow

If you have never felt hunger

a desperation so deep in your gut

that it gnaws at your bones and

it speaks in vernacular tongues

whispering to your pain addled brain

in the devil’s voice it denies,

tries to convince your starving stomach

that it doesn’t need that sustenance

then you have no right to tell me to be patient.  

 

It is devastating, to stand in the

refrigerator light sobbing,

in the open door of a food filled fridge and

know that there is not a damned thing in it

that you can ingest or imbibe

and there is nothing you can use

to fill that emptiness inside.

 

That experience

is enough

to destroy

anyone’s

mental wellbeing 

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©MelanieMcCurdie2017

Coming Soon to eBook and in paperback
Coming Soon to eBook and in paperback
Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
Get your copy of The Hurt Chamber by Foggy McCorrigan
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now
Twisted Tales by Patti Beeton is available now

In the tub

The swirling soap draws designs in the water over my scarred knees
They looks like badly used shillelaghs
Maybe I’m a disease or
maybe I’ve something to displease
Her, He, They, My Maker

And begging
please
can’t You stop
please
Begging for any sort of respite
from the constant noise of
The bells inside my head
Is useless and moot anyway
Because it’s gong to happen-

I hate it.
I hate to cry because it’s physically painful and
I downright despise being watched
While I tear myself apart
In a losing battle to hold it together

I know I can’t be the only one
Who has ever cried in the tub
Away from prying ears and
Sceptical eyes

So why do I feel so damned alone?

©MelanieMcCurdie

Timpani drums

If you have never grieved,
If you have never denied
the finality of reality
If you have never felt the
Timpani drums of your heart
Pounding and screaming in your ears
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO
and felt the weight of Reaper’s
sad, lonely gaze on your soul
Then you have no business
telling somebody else
how to mourn

©MelanieMcCurdie

The End of Her Rope

It is the last straw, this, the last time. This time his whore came to our home, dressed, or rather undressed, expecting him to be ready for her. In our bed. Not the first time, but certainly the final time. I’ve paid, and dearly for his indiscretions, physically, emotionally, having to swallow my pride and my hurt for the sake of his. It ends today.

She won’t be missed

I played the injured lover to the hilt, preying on her softer side. She knew he was involved, more of his lies are revealed, as she spills her guts over coffee, tears flowing over her cup. It makes me sick to watch her cry, all that emotion. I did the same, but they were false, simply a way to draw out more information, and she spilled her guts like vomit. Months of lies and purposeful manipulations he slathered on her, making her believe he loved her. How stupid of her to believe in him, his silver-tongued lies, always providing lip service so he can get some of the same. He cares for no one save himself, and he will pay for this violation. He promised after last time, when I caught him, and he nearly killed me in a rage after I confronted him. He will come to wish he’d finished the job.
Few times in our years together have I been glad for the isolation he forces upon me, living in the furthest reaches of civilization. The trees are a welcome cover for the next heinous deed I must perform. I smile, slightly, at the remembered terror in her eyes.

Her eyes widen with outright fear, as the coldness overtakes me. She’s seen the blackness that lives where I used to have a heart, the deep hole of hatred I harbour. She is up and out of the chair she sits in, blindly backing away. Her calves hit that horrible excuse for a table he HAD to have, and she tumbles backwards, her bare legs sprawling and revealing the bareness of her hollow. She followed instruction to the word. She scrambles to her feet, her loose-lipped maw open and screeching FIRE at the top of her lungs. The fire is out back, slowly smouldering as it waits for me to feed it more than wood and brick. I advance on her, pulling a designer knife from the back that sits on the kitchen island, yet another example of his falsity. Scream, I tell her, scream till your voice breaks, my own voice cold as the most bitter winter night. No one can hear you, I say, keep screaming. She does, long and loud, buzzing like a chainsaw in my ears.

Fool.

I wrapped my hand into the mop of ashen blonde hair, feeling it slide through my fingers like a sinuous snake. I clamp my hand hard and yank her head back, hearing its protesting snap as I pull, much as he probably does while slamming himself into her night after, “I’m working late” night. Making eye contact, I hold her gaze as I pull harder, exposing the tender and delicate flesh of her throat. The sounds she makes are sickening me, useless begging for her life. She doesn’t deserve to live. She sees the black rage seeping from my eyes and peals shriek after shriek her terror; it hurts my ears, makes my eyes bleed and I just want her to shut the fuck up. Holding the thick handled blade, I dig the tip into the smooth skin of her throat, drawing a blood poppy to the surface, and tear it across to the other side. Her shrilling stops, leaving in its wake only harsh bubbling sounds; I prefer that to the constant blaring, and her blood gushes over the ragged lip the blade made as it tore and ripped her flesh. My hand is coated with nearly too hot blood, as it pattered to the floor in a scarlet bloodfall, pooling at her feet.

I’ll have to clean that soon, before it begins to harden

My rage was too large to contain, a spitting monster that had to be let loose, and I destroyed her, first thrusting my knife over and over into her body, losing count in the screaming noise in my head, then with the axe, dismembering limbs and head. He’d hurt me so many times, with his words, his actions….his fists, attempting to break my spirit along with my bones, and she paid for all his indiscretions.

My arms hurt from the exertion, having hefted the axe I found in the shed, being unaccustomed to its weight, and chopped her empty shell into bits, a soundtrack of calm in my mind as I did. I fumble with the Advil bottle, and pry it open with my teeth, dry swallowing three before continuing to rid myself of what remains of her, feeding her dismantled bits into the flames, into the pyre. It is a burning Hell, the heat bringing a mist of sweat to my face, in the light of the morning sun. Soon there will be nothing left, as the fire’s hunger devours the diseased flesh of this…thing. Her hair goes up in a flickering blaze as I toss her head in, sparks exploding into the air. Too much product darling, I laugh, chuckling into the sunlight.
The sun is warm, as is the air. My fire warmed skin cooling in the slight breeze, I soak in the rays as I return to the house and the mess I have made. I will have to open all the windows and air out the house as I wash her vile blood from the floors, and soon, before it starts to dry. The concoction I mix to clean will aid in covering the stench of blood from the space, but I take no chances. He must not know until the time is right that his lover is gone, and I will delight in the pain and horror it will cause him. Opening the door it hits me like a brick wall, the smell of death redolent in the air.

The house reeks of copper as I scrub the splatter from the cupboards and counters, on my knees, soaking up the pool of now cool redness that gathers there. I wear no gloves, despite the intense toxicity of the cleaning solution, and my hands are painted red from wrist to my fingertips. Bloody gloves. My mind aches with the desire to punish him, the vision of what will be playing like a movie behind my eyes. He deserves every torture I can inflict, every pain I can devise, the possibilities are endless, and I feel damp with delight as I imagine him screaming in agony. Better, screaming with no voice.

He called a while ago, exactly when escapes me, only the dry ticking of the clock is counting the minutes….hours? Time means nothing to me now, only the deep-seated hatred that eats at my soul with sharpest teeth, and the knowledge of his death will finally bring me the freedom I crave. An adventure he said, his smug, lying voice like an ice pick in my brain. I wanted to lash out, slice his vocal cords as I had hers, the words strong on my tongue, but I withheld, instead acting surprised and pleased that we would be going away. “To reconnect,” he says, as though I have little clue about his cheating ways, about all the women he’d had in our bed, in our home, the lipstick stains on the wineglasses we rarely use, his underwear…fury screams in my head.

I burn the rags I used to mop up the mess I’d made. The pyre has burned low and red-hot, the logs I’d piled atop the bricks that lined the bottom of the pit covered in the ashes from her bones, as I watch the flames jump up, licking along the edges of the thin cloth. The fire animal devours the last vestiges of her existence, now not even her blood remains. There is not a drop of his whore left in my home; I cleaned and scrubbed every inch of the space I inhabit, twice.

A shrill ringing assaults my ears, damn, her cell phone. I race to the door, desperate to find the damnable thing before he waltzes in the door, demanding his dinner and God knows what else. I will have to play nice, as much as I’d rather bite that thing he is so proud of off than be anywhere near it. There it is, just under the corner of the divan that sits useless most of the time, its cheery ringtone an abomination. Happy…of course it would play that. She was happy enough, at the time. His number on the screen, and 10 texts varying from professing love to out-and-out worry. I giggle as I read, a true comedy are these messages, as if he could possible love anyone more than himself. Flames can’t rid me of this problem so easily. I turn off the phone, removing the battery and put both pieces into my purse, I can use this later, to throw at him as he….

It will be useful.

He slams in, throwing his keys on the kitchen table, leaving a light scratch across its surface. I feel that fear rising in my throat, knowing better to do more than breathe. Not if I am to finish this on my feet. He says not a word as he glares around the kitchen, nostrils flaring at the tang of the cleaner in the air. He growls at me, making some snide comment about finally bothering to clean, and the rage rises, nearly overflowing. I bite it back, and my tongue, hard enough to bring blood to the surface and tears to my eyes. Satisfaction colours his eyes, thinking that he won again, little does he know.

I wander around the far side of the island, preparing to serve dinner when my head is slammed to the marble surface of the countertop. He stands over me, holding me there as my own blood stains the shining surface, ruining the hard work I did just hours before, and unbuckling his belt. I know what comes next, and I know better than to struggle, so I simply stay still, waiting for him to assert his supposed dominance, all the while playing over and over the plans that I have to end this once and for all.

He enters me with no preamble, holding the same knife I had used to cut his slut’s throat to my own, and commences hammering himself into me, as though that will change a thing. He presses the knife’s tip harder, I can feel it about to break through the skin, when he loses interest, throwing it to the ground and pulling out. I breathe a little deeper, not daring to move or speak, yet eying the knife block and judging my distance. I’d as soon end him now than wait, the thought of driving that butcher knife into his skull with every ounce of strength I have mouth-wateringly sweet. He lifts my head from the counter by my hair, his hand twisted into my hair, yanking it hard as he does, and throwing me, callously, to the floor. He tells me to clean up the mess I made, and stalks off to the bedroom to change.

Slowly I rise to my feet, holding the edge of the counter to balance myself, eyes, though feeling loose in the sockets, staring directly at the knife block. I stagger forward, my foot slipping slightly on the spilled blood once again on the floor, rage warring with the need to gain back my equilibrium. Seething, my fingers curl around the handle of the large butcher knife that I’d pulled free, leaving it dangling at my side. My fury lingering just below the surface, I make my way to the bedroom, ready to end his pathetic life and free my own from this Hell I have had to endure for too many years. The shower is running, less to clean, should I do it now.

By the door, the luggage sits, aside the chair he stole back when he loved me, from the hotel where we spent our first night together. It has been noticeably absent over the past few years, and its appearance makes me recoil in confusion and suspicion. How I could have missed this is upsetting. It wasn’t there when he come home. I put the luggage there myself. From behind me, I hear him, the jingle of his keys as he grabs them, dragging them across the polished surface of the table, more scars to add to the collection, the tap running in the kitchen, and his happy humming as he throws the prepared dinner I’d made into the trash can. Still, I stand, bleeding from the split skin on my forehead, staring at this chair.

He asks me if I plan to change, a joking tone in his voice, handing me a wet facecloth to wipe the evidence from my face. I don’t respond, instead making my way to the bedroom, the den of iniquity, pulling my ruined top over my head as I do. The plan plays loud in my ears as I throw on something, paying little attention to what it is, simply one minded and determined to finish my torment. All is silent as I return to the kitchen, no presence of the bane of my existence, perhaps he took the opportunity to kill himself. But no, he is in the yard, warming his hands over the pyre of his now dead lover. I smile with the coldest touch of frost, feeling the coldness return to me as watch him pour water over the pit, washing down the ashes, drowning them. He sees me, his eyes narrowed and wary as he walks back towards me, fists clenched at his sides. Good. I hope he suspects what I’ve done. Should he lay another finger on my body, I will, with no remorse, cut his head from his body.

Having locked the door, he snatches the trash bag from the back door, tossing it to me as he grasps the luggage, the suitcases tied and playing tag along, with one hand as he lifts the chair with other, a strange and disturbing expression on his face. Yes, there is something niggling at the back of his mind, burrowing in like a panic rat just beginning to stir, and my lips curve as I set the alarm and turn the key in the lock. I have nothing but time now, nothing but the infinite pleasure of knowing it’s begun.

I don’t know where he is taking me, just that the road is dark and isolated, a back road. This is not the way to the hotel. I know now there is no hotel, no “weekend getaway”. He stares straight ahead, unresponsive to my demands to know what he thinks he is doing, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I see. I understand now. What I’ve planned in minute detail in my mind, he plans to inflict on me, or try to. As usual, he hadn’t planned ahead, hadn’t considered me in this at all past the decision that I was in his way of life with his slut. He won’t have that now, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He turns into an overgrown driveway, the trees and grass brushing at the undercarriage of the car, scratching at the windows and the sound is harmony in my ears. Here is where it will end, for one of us, for him. I’ve learned my lessons, studied, planned carefully. I have no fear left, instead, in the place where it lived for so long a fire is burning, consuming all in its path. I stare at him, hard and cold, letting the darkness carry whatever love I might have had away, leaving only rage, murderous intent.

The building he chose for his demise is an old and hulking relic, its stone walls weathered and beaten by the cruelest mistress of time and weather, its windows amazingly still intact, glittering like eyes in the moonlight that streams through the surrounding trees. Little point to screaming here; the nearest neighbour is miles away, far past he reaches of human voice. Good. He won’t scream anyway. He couldn’t with no air in his lungs.

The front door is standing open, as though waiting for us, slowly wavering in the slight breeze. The ghosts of this place are welcoming another soul. It won’t be mine. He appears at my window, a leering and malevolent smile on his lying lips, and I let my face show fear, my eyes fill and spill over tears. I feel nothing. Fear does not exist here, only the overwhelming desire to peel the flesh from his face, the need to rip his tongue from his head and watch him bleed out. He opens my door, and seizes me from the seat, his fingers digging deeply into the meat of my bicep, straight into the muscle that aches and moans from my exertions. I don’t fight much, just enough to let him think he’s won.

He hasn’t

I am thrown through the front door, where I land hard amongst the dust and debris left behind by those that have entered it before me. On the wall someone has written “You are in Hell” in blood-red paint. Wrong. I was in Hell. This is heaven, if it exists at all. He brings the chair in, holding it by its back with one hand, the other carrying a duffel bag, no doubt full of the tools he thinks he requires to end me. He won’t get the chance to use any of it.

The chair, its red velvet cushion gleams in the meager light, bringing to mind the first time he had me, when he loved me, if he loved me. When he reveled in my flame hair, drowning in the curls, when he called me his Bloody Angel, his Queen. Oh how he was going to build me a palace. Lies. Meretricious lies, all the while carrying on behind my back, flaunting his indiscrete rendezvous, thinking me too blind to see. Saying he loved me while he prostituted my own love for him, promises. Always promises.

Lies

I refuse to respond to his demands that I stand, to come and sit in this chair while he tells me a few truths. Truths, or more omissions of truth, it doesn’t matter. I won’t make it easy for him. I want him to struggle, to suffer for his lack of foresight. He crouches beside me, his finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes, and whispers how he plans to have me again, like the first time, in this place, and how the evening will end with a surprise. What a fool he is. It will end in surprise, and then, I will be free.

From the duffel bag he pulls a coil of rope, old and frayed, most likely from the shed behind our house, and I hear the rattle of other utensils within it. A pair of pliers falls from the bag, and I glance at his face, marvelling at the shock and horror written there. He doesn’t have the guts for it. I do. I ask him, innocently, what he plans to do with the rope, and he chuckles in what he perceives to be an evil laugh, as he winds the end into a noose, replying that he wants to try something new. There is no way that noose is going over my head, or near me if I can help it.
Above, the ceilings are open rafters, wide enough apart to swing the end of a rope over, and I see the plan he has in mind for me. I watch as he glances around at the rafters, trying to figure out how to loop the rope over it. Feigning innocence, I suggest he stand on the chair. He does, tracking dust in footprints on the crimson fabric, and I grit my teeth, holding back the need to shove him head first off of it, to watch him crack his skull on the hard floor.

The rope goes easily over, the noose now hanging parallel with his face, and he suggests I try it, it will be fun. I tie the loose end to the wall sconce bolted tightly to the wall, making sure it is tight and unmoving, then I ask, sweetly, as he expects, for him to show me. He slips the rough lariat over his head, tightening it around his own neck, smiling his liar’s smile, all teeth, no sentiment and I snarl, knowing the time is close.

I reach into my purse, and pull his whore’s cell from it, sliding the battery home and turning it on. His eyes bulge from his head in shock, as it plays its cheery tune, announcing more messages, probably from him. Meeting his eyes, I speak a truth of my own, that I know. That she was in our home, that he forgotten he had made arrangements to meet her while I was not there, again. How she spilled her guts to me over a cup of coffee.

How I killed her

With a smile full of malignant malice, my lips feeling white with the same frost that coats my heart, I drift closer and kick the chair out from under him. His feet dance in the air, reaching and kicking for purchase, as his hands grasp at the rope digging and choking him, cutting off his hair as his face turns puce. His body twists and turns, slowly spinning as he struggles to draw breath. I feel little, perhaps curiosity as the final indignities are visited upon him.

I sit astride the chair he stood on, the very chair where this all began, watching as he stares holes in my eyes, his hands now at his sides, opening and closing like some demented toy, probably wishing they were choking the breath from my own lungs. Survival of the fittest.

I could save him, if I did it now, cut the rope that he hangs from, and allow his pathetic excuse for a life to continue. I’d suffered at his hands, over and over, beaten till I couldn’t breathe, broken bones, he tried to break my spirit. Could I trust that the second his feet hit the floor that he wouldn’t be on me, letting his fists speak the words he is too inept to speak himself, I would show some mercy. If I had any. I don’t

Instead, I watch him. I listen to his harsh choking sounds, as he struggles and strains to catch air, my chin on my hand, alone in the dark. I feel little now that it’s done, even let down now that it’s finished. The coldness in my soul is growing, spare enjoyment of watching his final air dance, feet twitching in the air. In spite of all I had to endure, all the times I wished for his death, and for mine, prayed for some way out of this Hell I was living in, that this feeling should be so strong. I want to relive what I’ve done, relive what I’ve caused. I watch him swing.

@MelanieMcCurdie

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Doggerel and dirges

Don’t be too kind to me.
I’m only human and like it or not
There’s still a heart ticking away In here.
Worse yet, it feels things and I’m tired.
Stupid thing, it still wants to believe that maybe
words aren’t all doggerel and dirges
secrets and lies and wooful design.
so, please, don’t be too kind
I may believe you.

©MelanieMcCurdie

Storm

It’s something like a tornado

the way the universe tends to

turn. what’s a girl to do, one thinks

as she sprays her life with gaso/

line and lights a match just to watch

it’s birth; once, twice, thrice and again.

she does nothing more than giggle,

make popcorn and watch the world burn.

“clear skies ahead in the eyes

of the dead,” she sighs wiping

tears from her cheeks and i relate

because i know the struggle to

keep breathing. the creature creeping;

it’s not real, but it is. i don’t

comprehend how it is that they

cannot see the storm building, or

hear the thunders roar.  it never

stops to stupefy, boggle the

mind; bleating sleeping sheep in fear

afraid of a silly spirit.

watch the way they mill about

frantic when the winds begin to

whip chaos into a frenzy.

pray to the almighty absent

for sanctuary if it helps

i can’t grasp the concept of it

i don’t understand the way you prey.

©MMcCurdie

Plagued by a Promise

I remember the racket.

That noisy daemon behind the smile.

How could I forget?

Some say I fell in love

with you that day

and maybe they’re right.

Love as a brother,

the first truthsayer in my life.

My friend.

What resonates strongest, and

most often are those quiet

sober moments that weren’t

laugher and gaiety,

but factual and less than tactful.

The words, though, still stick.

“My dear, you’ll die.

Will you die on your terms

or conditions of someone else?”

The answer was then, on my terms.

The answer today remains the same.

I’d be lying to say there aren’t still  days

when I sit down to text you

about some stupidity

or a problem that only your

unedited POV can illuminate.

I get halfway through,

before I remember

that it’s useless,  that

it’s a message that you’ll never get.

I hate that, but I promised,

you motherfucker.

So you win again.

©MelanieMcCurdie2016

Broken Gate

what? who me? …
You can see me?

Thank You for asking –
i know it’s just a thing people say
it ain’t pretty – run…

why’re you still here?
*sigh* fine. You asked …

there are bleaker days, storms ahead and
i’m already tired -feeling small
all hands on deck
it’s going to be a bumpy landing

jebus i hate it enough when I fly
in some magical avionic nightmare
Terra Firma should be more stable –
yet here i am, back on the ground
Hurray!!! skinned knees!!
i’m wondering if- why should i –
i just don’t want to get back up

 don’t feel like breathing anymore
barely am anyway, these days
more like sucking a Pete’s Drive-In shake
through a cocktail straw
and it’s far more effort than it’s worth

still, it’s better than the alternative
i hear the transition is a bitch

©MelanieMcCurdie2016