Monday, 15 February 2010

Short Piece of Fiction - Unfinished

She is on my mind like a murderer. Stinging in the back as if the sting of a wasp sting my back, piercing the nerves with nails and teeth, biting and tearing away at me, clawing at my body with her claws of the devil. What is on my mind doesn't matter as I am singing a song in front of about a hundred people and I don't even know what I'm singing. Am I singing? I have to check, to see if there is a sound emitting from my mouth. There is. I feel it more than hear it. But I'm using it, my mouth is working on it's own. Oh my God, my mouth is working on its own. What if it stops halfway? I don't know where I'm up to.

I'm singing a Lead Belly song, I will soon begin to scream like Kurt Cobain did when he covered the song in 1993, a year before his death, and when I scream it will feel like this is a year before my death. As if it's a death scream, a warning before I die. One year to go.

She is on my mind and she shouldn't be, hanging on like someone feining suicide, and I am pretending, also, that I can sing. I can't sing. I'm using this weird falsetto that scratches from my throat so its like I'm singing with this weird anger in me. I can't sing. I have a singing voice. But I can't sing. My voice goes low and high. My eyes burst with salt tears as the force of the song pushes through the valve of my throat. She is sitting directly in front of me, leaning forward so that her back doesn't rest on the solid wooden back. She has her legs crossed. Her body is in a dress. Her body is slim and petite. Her legs make her look taller than she really is.

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