She had heard it all before. "Déjà moo. Déjà moo," she sneered in a dreary bored tone that perfectly reflected her present feelings for him. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! “You drink too much and I hate you when you’re like this!” he had said as he pushed her away.
She had loved him and still did, oh how much she still wanted him, arsehole that he was. Like her, he was a member of the burgeoning community of ad hoc families that were spreading like an unwanted disease in the empty houses that littered the right side of town. The more the squatters moved in, the more those who considered themselves respectable moved out.
He didn’t understand that drink sharpened her mind, made her more creative, esemplastic as her diverse extraordinary thoughts melded into one. He didn’t realise that she needed the drink to create her masterpiece.
She gazed at him scornfully as he lay stoned sleeping on the bare mattress, sharing his bed with fellow half-stoned druggies, life’s freeloaders and gypsy hearts that inhabited their sleazy little world. Bloody hypocrite!
Bastard, bastard, bastard!, she thought as she staggered over to the dark corner that served as her “office” slugging at the bottle that served her imagination. Bastard, bastard, bastard! I’ll show ya! I’ll write the damn book! She took the grubby sheet of A4 and slid it into the old pink typewriter and her fingers began touch typing, tapping out her masterpiece.
Christine decide yjsy djr epi;f yitm dkre[o’fyoymjker … … … …
… … … …
(This is not about me she said (hic!))
Shared with the good folk at the Writers Pantry #7 at Poets and Storytellers United, hosted by the lovely Sanaa.- cheers Sanaa!
Image: Courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons, "drunk unicorn" by Tom Frisch is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0