Sunday, July 23, 2006

The Babbling Still Continues On

"Kind of place a murder could go un-noticed, wouldn't you say?" the mocking thought asked him.
"Probably more than one."
"More than one!" the first thought was back. "How many have you killed, Charlie, or did you stop keeping score?"

She awoke from a dream, her nightgown drenched in sweat. She needed a cigarette. Those damn dreams were going to drive her mad eventually. She reached over for her pack on the nightstand only to find it missing.
“That bastard!” she screamed. He went for one of his “walks” and took their only pack of cigarettes.
She rose from their bed and stumbled into the living room to check the ashtray. Much to her dismay, this seems to have been one of the few times he actually emptied the bloody thing. Was she desperate enough to actually check the garbage can? Even if she was, could she really bring herself to smoke whatever she may find?
“Hell yes you are” her jones yelled out to her, so, with a heavy sigh, she grabbed her yellow dish gloves and placed her foot upon the pedal that would open the lid. She really felt pathetic. The pedal seemed like it was pushing back against her foot. She stood there a good ten minutes debating in her head if she really was that pathetic and desperate. She decided she was more lazy than pathetic and did not want to go out to buy a pack. She was in luck, he only half listened to her nags. He emptied the ashtray, but did not take out the garbage. She was never happier he ignored her in her life.
Sitting on top of the trash, free of any nasty debris or rubbish was a good three-quarter of a cigarette. She saw her lipstick on the filter and felt even better. It was dry and it was hers and her jones jumped for joy.
Now, she only needed a light.
“That bastard!”

Charlie had not found his Zippo yet. He had, however, head butted several pedestrians in the stomach while in his hunched over speed walking obsessive searching. He never had any problems focusing on a thought; quite the opposite actually.
“Think your finger prints are on it?” his thoughts were still with him.
He had searched five blocks and not seen so much as a glimmer of his lighter. He was devastated. Collapsing in a storefront doorway, he felt defeated. He had always been so proud of still having that lighter. He had lost so much in his life; so many mementos and trinkets, but he still had his Zippo.
His Zippo with “My Zippo” carved into one side and a badly made Grateful Dead lightning bolt on the other. His Zippo that he had indirectly conned some kid whose name he had forgotten out of. His Zippo, that he just felt in his right pants pocket.
He reached into the emptiness and pulled out a shining metal Zippo with “My Zippo” carved into one side and a badly made Grateful Dead lightning bolt on the other.
“I thought I dropped this” he said to himself.
“We told you Charlie,” his thoughts smugly said to him, “we are your memories. What you are, what you think, what you remember, and what you forget is us, not you. The lighter was a cheap trick to drive the point home. Now then, why did you kill her Charlie?”
Charlie sighed.
“I guess I don’t know. Who do I think I killed anyway?”
“Now we are getting somewhere.”

She looked out the window, looking for him. His “walks” never usually were this long. Something was wrong, she knew it.


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