Five minutes to Valentine's Day
Feb. 14th, 2010 12:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonFive minutes to Valentine's Day and she sits waiting with the gun. Twelve gauge, double-barreled and long. Thirteen shells stuffed with black powder, birdshot and grounded rose petals. Two loaded and eleven ready to party.
Five minutes to scramble the dark, get dressed and get my shit quick. Five minutes to get out the front door or back window without looking back. Five minutes until she makes me her 'Valentine'.
L&O repeats cycle mute off the tube unwatched but providing a sole source of light to navigate the cramped room by. The B-side of Magazine's Real Life crackles off a record player held together with duct tape and fraying band stickers. Crawling around the floor looking for my left boot, while the laces of the right untied, follow at my heels like punishing serpents.
Four minutes to Valentine's Day and all I'm missing is my t-shirt... an autographed Bad Brains, straight from the show, autographed by H.R. himself and unwashed since the summer of '87. No luck through the trash and unwashed laundry. No luck because she is wearing it and nothing else. Save the gun between us. I clear my throat by ways of getting her attention and she looks up from a comic book and the slightest shake of her head says - "No way!"
Beer belly sucked in and tucked unceremoniously into an old black bomber, chest hairs caught in the zipper and fuck it because I'm bolting for the door with just under three minutes to spare.
Two minutes and I finally manage to figure out the puzzle of her three locks and single chain rusted into place. I pry the door open and the cold slaps me as if insulted, interrupted and pissed. Shaking it off I turn to her to hiss some pithy goodbye and then, just like the song goes... "I'm in love again!"
One minute until Valentine's Day and I march back into her apartment with the fury of a retreating army going the wrong way, straight through the kitchen, down the brief hall and squeezing straight into the bedroom. She looks up with feral eyes blinking through tears of black melted mascara. No time to waste, so I lean in before she can register my presence, grab her by the shoulders, the barrel pressing obscenely into my belly and I kiss her as if it was the last kiss I would ever give... knowing that if I didn't time this right it would be.
Pull back and with seconds to go I run for my fucking life. Random impressions flash in a dream blur of jumbled imagery. Ice-T pulling a pistol and pointing it towards me from within the screen. Her shadow rising across the wall before me, while a stomp of her boots sends the records skipping back to another song's chorus. The rubber gorilla mask that she had wired to act as a lampshade - hollow eyes filled with a sickly yellow glow. The sudden vertigo snag as I step on my own laces and almost go tumbling into the kitchen.
Catch myself with... no just go. Ten seconds that's all I need, five in a pinch but baby I'm running like I got none.
The open door is barreling towards me and I hear the sharp distinct click of the hammers fall behind my back. Its a race between space and time, inchesss against secondsss..
before I hear the thunder clap...
and catch a sudden scent of roses.
Five minutes to scramble the dark, get dressed and get my shit quick. Five minutes to get out the front door or back window without looking back. Five minutes until she makes me her 'Valentine'.
L&O repeats cycle mute off the tube unwatched but providing a sole source of light to navigate the cramped room by. The B-side of Magazine's Real Life crackles off a record player held together with duct tape and fraying band stickers. Crawling around the floor looking for my left boot, while the laces of the right untied, follow at my heels like punishing serpents.
Four minutes to Valentine's Day and all I'm missing is my t-shirt... an autographed Bad Brains, straight from the show, autographed by H.R. himself and unwashed since the summer of '87. No luck through the trash and unwashed laundry. No luck because she is wearing it and nothing else. Save the gun between us. I clear my throat by ways of getting her attention and she looks up from a comic book and the slightest shake of her head says - "No way!"
Beer belly sucked in and tucked unceremoniously into an old black bomber, chest hairs caught in the zipper and fuck it because I'm bolting for the door with just under three minutes to spare.
Two minutes and I finally manage to figure out the puzzle of her three locks and single chain rusted into place. I pry the door open and the cold slaps me as if insulted, interrupted and pissed. Shaking it off I turn to her to hiss some pithy goodbye and then, just like the song goes... "I'm in love again!"
One minute until Valentine's Day and I march back into her apartment with the fury of a retreating army going the wrong way, straight through the kitchen, down the brief hall and squeezing straight into the bedroom. She looks up with feral eyes blinking through tears of black melted mascara. No time to waste, so I lean in before she can register my presence, grab her by the shoulders, the barrel pressing obscenely into my belly and I kiss her as if it was the last kiss I would ever give... knowing that if I didn't time this right it would be.
Pull back and with seconds to go I run for my fucking life. Random impressions flash in a dream blur of jumbled imagery. Ice-T pulling a pistol and pointing it towards me from within the screen. Her shadow rising across the wall before me, while a stomp of her boots sends the records skipping back to another song's chorus. The rubber gorilla mask that she had wired to act as a lampshade - hollow eyes filled with a sickly yellow glow. The sudden vertigo snag as I step on my own laces and almost go tumbling into the kitchen.
Catch myself with... no just go. Ten seconds that's all I need, five in a pinch but baby I'm running like I got none.
The open door is barreling towards me and I hear the sharp distinct click of the hammers fall behind my back. Its a race between space and time, inchesss against secondsss..
before I hear the thunder clap...
and catch a sudden scent of roses.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2010-02-14 06:02 am (UTC)I'm stealing your purpose and molding it into a valentine for myself.
How like a woman.
no subject
on 2010-02-15 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2010-02-14 06:17 am (UTC)alternate soundtrack:
http://www.mediafire.com/file/yznnmwntmny/Stabbing Westward_ - _Dawn_(01 Escape From L.A).mp3
no subject
on 2010-02-15 11:32 pm (UTC)Interesting I haven't heard much Stabbing Westward before (heard of mainly)... reminded a little of a gentler Tool with a splash of Vast throw in for good measure.
However I've been on a bit of Post-Punk kick here of late - with that unique breed of Englander the Feral Popinjay (somehow managing to come off as weedy and angry at the same time) - hence the excessive Harry Devotto references throughout the story.
no subject
on 2010-02-18 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2010-02-18 06:32 pm (UTC)Thank you:)
no subject
on 2010-02-19 02:08 am (UTC)