cold blooded other; a prologue [x]

The bottle is frozen to her palm, froth bubbling up and over and trickling down her fingers. A barely audible gurgle is masked by the whistle of air through the open window, the curtains snapping. She licks her lips. She makes no sound, doesn't breathe; listens to the single stuttering heartbeat in the room.

The only thing she wears is a white silk shirt. It does not belong to her; much like the blood slowly congealing against her breastbone, it belongs to the man she currently sits astride. His top jeans button is still undone.

She sits back, tongue darting out again to chase a stray drop from her chin. She looks down and wrinkles her nose at the rapidly staining collar of the shirt; sighing, she pulls at it and inspects the damage. Her fingers swipe through the liquid that has made its way from her collarbone to ribs, and she sucks some off her thumb absently. She takes a swig from her beer and wrinkles her nose again, and holds the bottle up to her face to inspect the label.

She stands, muttering under her breath about "cheap shit." She pads across the cool hardwood of the apartment's floor, and blood starts to drip down to her belly button in a single crawling dribble. She feels its progress as she walks into the darkened kitchen and bends to inspect the wine rack.  A drop lands on the tile, another on her bare foot. 

She ignores this, taps a rust-smeared finger against each bottle, her nail making a 'clink' against the hard glass bases. She pulls out a white and a red, studies both, places them next to each other on the counter. After a few moment's deliberation, she points at one, then the other, "eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger..."

The man in the living room moans softly. Her pointing finger pauses on the white, so she replaces the red and finds a corkscrew. Rather than search for a glass, she drinks wine warm and straight from the bottle. Perching lightly atop the counter, head cocked towards the noise, she sips patiently. She rubs the spot off her foot with the cuff of the shirt. The man groans again, and she can again hear the slight bubbling of blood in his throat. Hunger stirs low in her stomach.

Acute

Sometimes, she knows which nights will be the bad ones.

Her skin itches. Like tiny things are running up her bones, she imagines she can feel their claws snicking and catching as they make their way. Shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, scratch-sliding down her hips, this is how she knows where this night will end.

She might reach for a cigarette, a textbook, her fingers might just open and close and open. Snatching, shaping the air's path, imagining molecules whistling all the way down when she abruptly drops her hands to her lap.

needles

Christmas songs are okay after Thanksgiving,

but not trees

we make fun of the people who've already got one

shining in the window

I mean, I could understand lights

even the strobe action at the house on 100th

my sister loves that display

(the one with the deer that move,

the giant plastic snow globe thing)

but she still tsks at the evergreen upstairs

it'll be dead in two weeks

my mom thinks it's sweet, so my dad stops muttering

about ridiculous and November

my sister restarts her campaign for a real one

before all-nighters were commonplace

(when I had to take naps all day

to prepare for New Year's Eve)

my sister and I hid under our comforter and waited

for the pitter-patter of hooves

on the roof (two apartments above our heads, but

we were listening hard)

but the presents Santa brought us came after we fell asleep

stacked high on our dining room table

not like the songs say, but we didn't care

(because presents)

Mom always set out a little fake tree in the middle

usually not even green

Dad, who grew up too poor for a Douglas or Fraser

loved the homemade ornaments

(the kind seven year olds make in school,

with their faces in the middle)

my mom, who grew up in a house

with a big fir every year

(bought two or three weeks before, tops)

made lots of fruitcake and stayed quiet

we drive by a vendor, probably a boy scout troop

$65! $100! Emma talks about how Christmas cheer

is priceless

ABCs

you were lonesome

but babies don't know that word

they know how to cry until their parents come

you lay in your crib and you wailed

chubby fingers reaching in the dark, expecting Mama

but Mama was plugged in, tuned out

fingers to temples because your noise pierced

and Daddy was already gone, Mama

didn't teach you the word for him,

though sometimes her crying did 

you plugged in, tuned out

because she told you something was missing

but not that he had a name

your father, the asshole, good-for-nothing

she told you, we don't need him

but left a hole gaping in your chest

something you pawed at when telemarketers

asked for the man in the house

or on the third Sunday of every June

your mother doesn't believe in "Hallmark holidays" anyway

sentimentality was never her strong suit,

nor was teaching you baseball or getting home

before midnight every night because she 

stayed late, worked hard to support you

she told you, but you could smell the whiskey

Mama was working hard to form 

her words and not paw at 

her own gasping chest

pathos

at the end of each day,

we sit across from each other

and practice telling the truth.

"fuck. ask me again."

"concentrate."

"I'm trying."

they taught you what you couldn't say

before fingerpaints, shoelace tying

my mouth formed pretty stories on its own

“why were you crying?”

“no reason.

“shit.”

you punch lockers when you’re frustrated

I sing to myself

tell people it’s the lullaby my mother sang

“where’s your mother?”

“she died when I was-”

“liar.”

you only know the truth

because a thief thinks everyone steals

as hard as I’ve worked to have no tells

“what does your father do for a living?”

“he. is a…”

“why are you hesitating?”

I intercept teacher’s notes,

you hide bruises,

we’ve got so many games

“are you okay?”

“are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m fine.”

we slink home

congratulate ourselves

the progress made