Left Inside

Picking up writing again isn't as easy as picking up a fork. The mind gets clouded, foggy, and blank. Writing just to write isn't that easy. Some people can't write at all. Some people can't even read at all. So what's my problem? Anything in the world is available to write. I search for something tragic. Something deep inside my spirit that can move people to clearer thinking. I'd have better chance wishing it off on the stars, birthday candles, or dandelions. I'd have better chance going off on a tangent story. Expanding my mind into some made up fable of mystery and horror. The blood splattered across the room as Georgia slit the throat of her most loathing pride. She had enough of his lies. Her vision always turned red when he walked into the room. Something about him. His confidence, no, maybe it was his brisk aura. Everything was fast paced around him. Go here, get this, go there, and repeat. He made tornados seem like light breeze. Maybe it was the fact that she knew deep down, she could never be. She never had it in her. Her mind came back to the blood spilling poetically on to her white gown. The body slumped against her. A very small panic rushed through her, but her breathing remained the same slow and calm. It was finally over. She pushed the body back into the chair and smoothed out her dress. She never lost her poise for anyone. Gracefully, she stood up and walked over to the countertop. She reached for her cigarettes. Her hands shaking opening the pack, pulling one out, and lighting it. She inhaled desperately. After a few drags, she walked over to the record player to set the needle back. Patsy Cline, a golden classic, sung sweetly as Georgia danced across the room holding the air as her partner. In mid-twirl, the waltz ended abruptly. Her arms dropped down to her side. The doorbell rang once again. Snapped into reality, she ripped her dress off and flung it over the body. She rushed to the bathroom and grabbed the robe hanging on the hook. Opening the door, she notices it was only the postman dropping off a package. In her mind, nuts and bolts are tightening to the point of combustion. Her little fiasco has ended. It was time to dispose of the body, but how? This wasn't a thought in her plan. There was no plan at all. He wasn't suppose to drop by to catch her up on the conference. He wasn't suppose show his chivalry of coming inside briefing her on their differences and hoping that one day those differences wouldn't matter. It wasn't planned that he was acting like a complete ass because he was madly in lust for her. To the point of envy, he tried his very hardest to impress her, to look better, to be the man of man's. It all surfaced to her. What if we could have been? Boy, it's a little late for that now. She chuckled. It was a scary thought of how light she could paint the situation. She gathered sheets from her linen closet and spread them across the floor before him. Nudging the body lightly, it slipped off the dining chair onto the bedding. It wasn't a moment later that she was mortified by what was done. She sprawled the body out straight, so she could roll up the sheets. Georgia worked faster now, as the green feeling in her stomach was rising. There was no time to get chicken shit now, she reminded herself. The ropes tied across the man who was left inside.