Prompt: "The world is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think." —Horace Walpole
—
LOVE IS COLDER THAN DEATH
—
They've had fights before.
It shouldn't be such a big of a deal.
But it is for her.
What a goddamn mess she's gotten herself into. This guy is a walking disaster, ready to drop dead at any second, probably wishing it happened sooner rather than later.
He's sitting on the couch, watching TV, drinking a glass of wine. She wants to ask him, "Since when do you drink wine?" but of course, she doesn't because she knows that the moment she opens her mouth, her true feelings will tumble out. Who would want that.
She sits at the kitchen table (it's super shabby and they should have thrown it out months ago; one of the legs is about to break), observing him, hating him, loving him, cursing him, and just thinking, thinking, thinking—what a fucking mess.
Sometimes she wishes she could just turn off these thoughts. They're always there. Always, always, always. It's starting to drive her nuts.
What does he do for a living? She doesn't know. Not the truth, anyway. Night-time security guard, he says, not explaining why his suit has dark spots looking like blood on it.
Where does all the money come from? They live in a run-down apartment, but he has enough money to buy booze for the entire city. It's all he spends it own. That, and cigarettes. She remembers her birthday and the lack of present. They had had a fight about that, too.
Why does he stay with her if he doesn't love her? That one keeps coming back every day, every hour, every minute.
He's a complete disaster.
And she wants to kill him for making her life a tragedy. Girl from a rich family, went to university, was the top med student's girlfriend until he waltzed by (she was siting at the restaurant with her friends when he brushed past her, casually touching her neck). It all went downhill from there.
Her feelings boil, burst, and she throws a vase at him. It crashes two feet away from him.
"What the fuck, yo?" He doesn't get up, only turns around, glares at her, and for a second there, she thinks he'll kill her.
Of course, that's what he does for living. Killing, terrorizing, threatening, blackmailing, collecting. She knows. It's just always easier to pretend you don't.
"Go fuck yourself!" She sweeps everything that's on the table on the floor, where it crashes in a satisfying symphony, each object breaking a note that elevates her spirit, fuels her anger, destroys her soul, poisons her heart. "You ruined everything. Everything!"
"Christ, woman, keep your voice down."
"Fuck you!"
He goes back to the TV. "Sure. I just want to finish this."
The tears come, expected but not welcome. She hides in the bathroom, sobbing.
He never bothered. He didn't even get up. He doesn't care.
Then again, he never did.
She wants to slit her wrists, swallow some pills, drown herself. Whatever is necessary. They say suicide is often an impulsive gesture. Screw what they say.
It's been coming for a long time, she thinks as she grabs a bottle of painkillers.
What a fucking tragedy.
—
They've had fights before.
It's just another one added to the already long list.
He's forgotten what it was about. Something about kids, maybe. Who cares, really.
She's sitting at the kitchen table, probably sulking, pouting, whatever it is she does after they fight. Sometimes they fuck; it's angry and violent and one time she slapped him after he kissed her and it took all his self-control not to slap her back. He's watching TV, not listening.
He couldn't find beer in the fridge, so he took the only bottle of wine. It might have been a gift from someone. Maybe his boss. He stopped paying attention to these details a long time ago. He should, though. But he's not on the job; a rare day off spent fighting, arguing.
The news anchor looks like a doll. An ugly one, with too much makeup one, or maybe not too much—maybe it's just badly applied. He honestly doesn't give a fuck about the makeup. The girl he slept with last week wore a shitload of it (he remembers because it smudged all over his shirt and her pillow).
Something happened in one of the sector; a blown-up reactor. A terrorist group or something. They call it a tragedy; he realizes that for him, it's just more work to do. Tomorrow, the boss will hand them a file with profiles and instructions and he'll do as they say. Perhaps he'll add a few personal touches here and there. Can't break the habit, yo.
He hears her pick up something; the vase crashes two feet away from him.
"What the fuck, yo?"
Her hair is dishevelled, her PJs are dirty, her face is red. He wants to roll his eyes. Maybe even laugh a little. What a fucking mess.
"Go fuck yourself! You ruined everything. Everything!"
There she goes with the drama. With her it's always drama, drama, drama.
"Christ, woman, keep your voice down."
"Fuck you!"
"Sure. I just want to finish this." He turns back around, pretending to watch the television. She cries and leaves.
He feels irritated. It doesn't last long. He nearly forgets about her when he hears her vomiting. He hesitates before getting to his feet. After all, she might be doing this for attention. He doesn't stumble despite the alcohol in his system. The wine bottle lays empty on the carpeted floor.
"What is it this time?"
She's curled on the ground, lying in a puddle of her own vomit, convulsing. He stands there, analysing the situation as best as he can. There's a bottle of painkillers next to her.
He sighs.
She's dead before he can reach for the phone. But he doesn't call an ambulance. Too many questions. He could just show them his ID, but then there would be paperwork.
His friend picks up on the third ring.
"Dude, I need help moving a body."
Silence on the other end.
"I'm drunk and she killed herself."
He laughs at his own words.
What a fucking joke.
—
A/N: Written for Unattainable Dreams' Prompt Exchange Challenge.
Title is The Virgins' "Love Is Colder Than Death".