Disclaimer: Don't own nada. Don't
sue. Just workin' a little writin' thang.
Category: Angst/Romance; Amnesia
Challenge; Future L/C
Feedback: Please
BROKEN
Valentine Michel Smith
It's better to have loved and been loved in return…
The living room is dark. The scent of rain drifts through open windows,
carrying memories of past summers and ancient joy. She hears the
pit-pit-patter, rhythm constant, water on the needs-paint surface of the porch
beyond her.
She knows the wood is curving because it's warped.
She doesn't care.
The screen door bangs.
She doesn't look to see if wind is driving rain from outside in.
It is.
She doesn't care.
She's curled, feet under thighs and hips, back against the sofa's armrest. She
should be comfortable.
She isn't.
She's leaning too much, the angle's too awkward to sustain without distress.
She doesn't notice though until her muscles tense and spasm.
The light…
It's a fleeting thought, much like the notion of reaching for the end table
lamp or crossing the room to flick on the overhead.
She doesn't move.
She often falls asleep there on the couch.
The bed was meant for two, not one.
She draws her arms around herself. The attempt at consolation proves a waste of
time.
Her
eyelids flutter, heavy. Her head falls chin to chest as sleep overwhelms.
THUUUUuMMMMP.
She bolts up. "What the hell was that?"
Her breath catches as she listens. Nothing.
She rises, heading for the porch.
She opens the door, flicking the switch for the porch light.
There's a click but the bulb offers nothing.
"Shit," she says, pulling the door open.
Sodium lamps throw shadow and light in random vegetation/building
configurations.
She looks out along the horizon, watches as shrubs wave breeze greetings.
She looks down – and she sees.
Male. Twenties. Tan. Muscles drawn taut.
He's wadded up in a ball, stark naked.
He's wet; water glistens randomly.
He's shivering.
Dark hair long, falling into a face obscured.
She stumbles back into the room, gasps.
She starts to cry, then –
SCREAMS
She runs through the living room, the dining room and kitchen, exiting the
apartment via the back door.
She brushes back overgrowth the landlord promised to cut back two months ago.
She runs out into the street.
Her voice comes in a whisper. "Help. Somebody, help me... Please..."
A car slows, then speeds by her. Her voice is now loud, desperate. Help!
SOMEBODY...!!!!" Another car swerves around her. Across the street, a door
opens.
A neighbor. An older man. She leads him to the porch, her movements faltering.
Trepidation is misplaced. The porch is empty. She regards the absence, her mind
racing. "He was... right here."
The Old Man nods, feigning belief. He steps back, receding into the background.
Alone...
She decides to walk.
She walks around the corner and into the neighborhood bar.
Vodka is the poison of choice. She learned early on – no day after aromas to
contend with. She's still pretty. Men buy her drinks. She tells them her name
is "Connie." It's much more common than "Lana."
She has a few – mostly single. The last drink is a double.
The men tell her eyes are intoxicating.
She prefers the vodka.
She doesn't feel better when she leaves.
She just feels... less.
She meanders back to the apartment. "Hmrphf. Maybe I'm just seeing things." She
laughs a little, the laughter strained and unreal.
She walks into the apartment, and stumbles. She falls, landing hard on
something on the living room floor.
She pushes herself up. Not something... Someone...
He's in the living room.
Sprawled on the Ikea rug. The one he helped her pick.