prompt 63: do not disturb

The do-not-disturb sign is on Mother's door again, and you know what that means. Grab something to eat and lock your bedroom door, then pop your headphones on with the music up as loud as it'll go and try to block them out.

You don't even realize you've fallen asleep until you hear her pounding on the bedroom door - bam bam bam bam, followed by her screechy voice, slurred with the booze she's drank and whatever else went with it, "OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!"

Ignore her, and she'll go away in a few minutes, muttering angrily to herself. The battery in your CD player ran dead who-knows-when, so you get up and dig through the junk drawer in your dresser, trying batteries until you find one that works, tossing the dead ones back into the drawer, because really, they're batteries.

But you don't even have time to turn the CD back on before you hear her out in the living room, laughing her wheezy laugh, a purr in her words, and you know she's on Dave's lap, running her long, perfectly manicured scarlet fingernails through his hair, or, if he's a skinhead like some of them have been, down his chest.

Of course, his name isn't really Dave; actually, you have no idea what it is; you've just called them all "Dave" since him, the one who actually was named Dave, but you'd rather not think about him if you don't have to.

You're about to turn on your music again when you realize you have to use the bathroom, so you set the player on the dresser and slip out into the hall, closing the door so quietly that it barely makes a sound. There's vomit on the bathroom floor, probably Mother's; she does that - drink until she pukes and then drink some more. She'll throw a fit if it's there later, once she's sobered up, so you clean it up quickly with an already-dirty towel from the hamper, tossing it back in once you're done, checking the rest of the floor to make sure you got it all.

When you step out of the bathroom again, she's standing at the sink, pouring shots, and sees you. When she looks over, so does he, a wide, lecherous smile twisting his lips. She looks back at the bottle and ignores you, but he beckons for you to join them, "hey little girl, have a drink with mummy and daddy, it'll be fun, you'll like this drink, little girl, c'mon", but you ignore him and make your way back into your room as quickly as you dare, locking the door again and picking up your CD player.

Another hour, maybe two, then you'll never see him again, it'll be someone new next time, it's never the same one twice. So you turn the music back on, still as loud as it'll go, and settle in to wait, only to repeat the whole thing next time you see that ugly little red and white sign that reads "do not disturb".

I hear them when I hide in the bathroom.
They come in between classes,
loose sneakers thumping,
flip-flops shuffling,
high-heels clicking.
They chatter about senseless things,
gossiping in staged whispers,
squealing like pigs,
giggling - "Huh-huh huh-huh huh-huh"
Beasts of conformity, slaves of fashion,
the "It" girls, golden skeletons
in skin-tight jeans, micro-minis,
teensy t-shirts cut to show
their premature breasts.
They don't see me there, or if they do,
they certainly don't acknowledge my presence;
for I am the lowest of the low:
a bathroom-hider.

Lament of Innocence: A Nursery Rhyme

Run for thy life, little one, I say
The Reaper cometh for thee this day
Thy existence, a journey, now cut short
Thy ship never to make it to port

Innocence lamented, th' angels cry,
Their tears falling from th' sky

But hide thyself, cover thy head
Through the night, keep thee to thy bed
An' mayhap Death will just pass by
A whisper in the night, a baby's sigh

Innocence lamented, th' angels cry,
Their tears falling from th' sky

Starless Night

Lips pressed to the inside of your thigh,
chilled alabaster skin like silk against my own,
limbs sprawled carelessly across the blanket.

Threads of moonlight bathe the room in silver,
highlighting your ebony hair, spread upon the pillows,
reflecting in your emerald eyes, illuminating the
bruise-like shadows resting beneath them.

There are no stars to shine here, in the heart
of this corrupted, decaying city of lost souls;
glancing up, seeing our image in the window-glass,
my fair skin still somehow dark against yours,
a keening sound escapes my throat.

Laying a scarred hand against your cheek,
surprised to feel the tears on my own;
your rose-petal mouth is open slightly,
but there is no air in your lungs to breathe.

Stand up and look down at you with a sigh,
lay the pillow on your face once more,
even though you're far beyond the point of struggling.

Adrenaline filling my system, heart pounding,
blood pulsing in my veins as those moments
replay vividly in my memory, flashing before my sight.

Outside, the blackened sky gives way to morning,
the silver moon retreating to invisibility as the
jealous sun takes its place in the morning sky.

Sarah.

She writes poetry in the sand,
delicate fingers tracing curving letters,
white-blonde hair spilling over the
porcelain skin of her bare shoulders,
blue eyes sparkling as she
smiles shyly up at me from under thick lashes,
her heart-shaped face tilted slightly,
illuminated in the pale moonlight.
She would hate me if she knew.

A Moment in the City.

The city is restless, cars swarming like ants in upheaval,
streetlights, stoplights, and neon signs burning the midnight hour,
pedestrians scurrying to and fro in various states of disarray.
Bass beats pump out of empty doorways and broken windows,
pulsating like a living creature, absorbing the surrounding cacophony.
A beast shoves forward, hawking wares with undulating limbs,
lifting away raiment and gesturing lewdly before fading again.
The tolling of the city clock resounds in momentary harmony,
and all are still for a brief moment, listening with rapt attention,
the timekeeper's song holding the ears and hearts of the masses captive.
Then the song ends and life resumes, lost within the eternal race once more.