one night; one more time {srar}

sadie {♔} barton

There’s not a sound to be heard in the morning sun.

There’s not much to be seen, either.

For now all that’s left is the ceiling fan spinning, a bed left half empty by one who’s already gone. It’s a bit better this way, though, because now there’s no awkward conversation, no strangled attempts to right a wrong.

This way is simpler because there’s no technicalities to face, no questions to answer.

It’s simpler this way as I pull myself from the bed and onto trembling feet, the cold touch of the floor a wake-up call that’s louder than any alarm. There’s a jacket strung on the corner of the door, and without a moment’s hesitation I snatch it, pulling the over-sized thing about my frame and scrambling towards the window before catching sight of one of my shoes under the bed. It’s buried among clumps of dust and loose socks, and I scrunch my nose in disgust as I pull both shoes from the chasm.

I’m thankful that the silence hasn’t been broken, unlike the pieces of glass that litter the floor below the window. Though I suppose I’m thankful for that too, in a way, because now I can touch my feet to the grass outside, I can touch my feet to an escape route, and that comforts me more.

There’s no way to get bearings at this point, so I wander. Further and further from the floorboards that reveal memories at every step, new recollections and thoughts brought to light by recalling the previous night.

“Is the name pretty enough to match the face?”

“Yeah, it’s go fuck yourself.”

It’s a line been used plenty a time, but it never seems to lose its sting, and even funnier than that itself is the reaction it draws from the one it’s been spoken to. The edge of surprise and annoyance hasn’t ever faded, and I sure pray it doesn’t, for that’s what makes it fun—what makes the rush of adrenaline and god forsaken headaches worth it.

There’s a pounding now, but I can’t hear it nor feel it, for I’ve come to a clearing that strikes me as familiar, and I turn my direction south before continuing again, and after what seems like hours of fruitless walking, I come upon the white-washed walls of my own home.

The door’s not locked, which is nothing out of the ordinary, and I drop the jacket outside before continuing in.

None of the lights are working, and I make a mental note to find new lightbulbs before the week is over (but I’ve made that reminder for the previous six weeks, and here I am, standing in the dark). It’s only a short hallway that leads to my room, and I’m there within moments, pushing the door only slightly ajar before making my way in.

The record player still sits on the counter, and I huff in annoyance, considering I had spoken to Florence only the day before about coming to pick it up and haul it off to the rendezvous point, but like most promises Florence makes, it didn’t get fulfilled.

There’s a huff of annoyance that leaves my lips as I crack open the window and set it outside before pulling the records from under the bed and throwing them into my bag. There’s nothing left here besides empty sheets and a couple of ripped shirts, so I make my way back out the same way I came in, not bothering to shut the door, since there’s nothing to take anyway.

The record player was bulkier than it seemed when I had lowered it from the window, and it takes me a good five minutes to shift it into a position which I deem comfortable. The walk to the point isn’t far, but it’s far enough to cause my arms to quiver as I attempt to keep from dropping the contraption. There’s not a soul to be seen, thereby making my entry harder as I push the heavy, steel door open with my back while trying to stay quiet as possible, if only for a moment.

Then again, our voices have never been what might be defined as quiet.

It’s nothing more than a large room with cracked windows, reminiscent of our empty hearts and cracking minds, for we all had stories to share, and I imagine a few more would be shared in the passing hours.

It’s been said that the broken hold to each other for comfort, and as the first note strikes the air it’s proven true. The needle scratches upon the same way glass marks upon skin, and the scratches upon the latter match my own. We’ve all been played a time or two before, none of us new to the pain of a note played off-pitch. Our voices are a melody made from distrust, our harmony matched from stories woven together at the worst of times.

But we aren’t to be silenced by any rule or regulation, and though the solitude is nice for a moment, I crave the company of the others that share the same mind as I.

Besides, it only takes a voice to start a war, and if that’s the case, I suppose we’re taking up arms.