Those flowers on my walls

She stared at me with discontent and I felt the blood coarse through my veins like a freight-train on a one-way destination with no worries or no lives to save in the process.

"What the hell is your problem?!" she asked me, but I had no answer. Instead, I stand there, my rage burning and seething directly below the surface, waiting for the opportune moment to snap. "I have no problem" I reply, indifferently. She scoffs at my pathetic attempt to wipe the situation clean from my back and then she proceeds to mock and defile who I am in a series of offensive laughs that make my eyes burn and my face twitch for lack of reason.

I'd fallen in love with this woman years ago and now my love has shifted. It went from her, a 38 year old mother of my children and love of my life to the 14 year old body of my daughter's best-friend. How it happened I'll never truly be able to explain, but one with sight and similar feelings might be able to answer that question for me.

"You're sick!" she tells me. I cannot deny this. I stand there appropriating my gaze to whatever feels least awkward at the moment. "You're a fucking creep!" she yells in my direction. My eyes look up to her now, she openly burns her rage. Mine is down. My rage is at the center and the core of the human infrastructure waiting until someone finally snaps and breaks me open like a glowstick.

I've thought how this moment would go various times throughout my tenure with the girl, but I could never come to a logical conclusion on the subject. Instead, I would play it over in my head and each time my wife would be less angry at me. Now, as I stand her with my pride in my right hand pocket all I can think is that this was far worse than I'd ever expected.

"You dirty, old, fucking loser!" she calls me. I perk up, my cheek twitches and I walk forward. I grab a picture off of the wall without looking at it. "What are you doing now?!" she yells to me. I continue marching toward her as she's backing away. I get her in the corner, lift up with the glass picture frame and let go on her face. I destroy her beauty and I demolish her ability to call me names. I don't quit. The glass is long gone at this point (noted by the amount left in her face) and she lay there still, lifeless.

influence

the room spun, his body felt heavy. He'd made it up the stairs, though barely. He thought about his actions before they disappeared into oblivion never to see the light of day again. He cringed at the sobriety and welcomed the mental levity the drugs brought him. They were all a smoke-screen to cover up the distant and corrosive past the he refused to acknowledge.

The sad times he referred to them in his more lucid states. Alas, his lucidity never quite lasted long enough to make an impression in his conscious.

For some odd reason or occurrence, he'd went outside to sit on the porch. His eyes hazy, glassy, empty and dull. The drugs are just deeply sobering he'd often repeat. Sobering to see what the world has become without your insolence, maybe.

He closed his eyes as he sat upright and began to drift. His mind went places he didn't want it to and his brain couldn't find one simple place to relax in between any of it. He felt a void rising in him and the man was helpless but to accept what he was given.

Instead, he lay down on his porch and drift away with the evening air.

"So are you coming?"

"So are you coming home with me?" he asked her. "Well, I really don't know you. I'm new to town anyways." The man smiled. "Well, my name is Philip, I live about fifteen minutes away in the upper East Side if you go by foot. Also, you made your point- you're new to town, you could probably use a friendly hand." She thought of this momentarily. She'd come out from Washington where she had spent most of her younger years. She'd been staying at a friends home in Poughkeepsie and made the trek to the city to see what she'd been missing out on.

She still stood there, her eyes affixed to Philip's face. She wanted to know if he was a 'good guy' or a 'bad guy' but eventually threw away any ideas that someone would want to hurt her.

"Yes." she said, weakly. Philip smiled. "Okay, well let's go then." The two walked out of the pub and Philip hailed a cab. The weather was cold, the streets were thick with snow and Central Park was a mere fifty paces ahead.

"Where to?" the driver asked the two people. Philip replied with his assumed home address and the Taxi went off into the night.

Old Jazz poured out of the car stereo. Miles Davis to be exact. To be more exact it was the song "Diner Au Motel", a gem. The subtle bebop sounds mixed with the flashing lights and radiating street-lights as the girl stared out the window. She was mesmerized. "New York is the prettiest place you'll ever see during the Winter, Nancy." Nancy didn't reply, not right away anyways. She continued to look out the windows while listening to the trumpet noise and snare drum roll.

Nancy thought herself to be rude and eventually decided to spark up a conversation with the recently met Philip. "So, uh what do you do?" she asked. Philip took himself from his newspaper he found in the back seat and answered her. "I work for an investment firm, boring crap." He made a slight laugh and then he asked her a similar question. "What about you? What do you do? Why're you here?" She looked out the window as she spoke. "Well, I was a teacher. Grade school, mostly. I don't know. I got tired of it. I wanted to experience something else."

He looked at her fondly before conjuring a question. "Well, is this 'something else'?" he asked. "It sure is." she said.