Archive for Heartache

Pity and the Bottle

Posted in Dialogue, Fiction with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 1, 2016 by Rathan Krueger

POLLY
Why don’t you put the bottle down?

FRANCESCA
No point, didn’t you know? I’m worthless.

POLLY
No one’s worthless, Francesca.

FRANCESCA
Tell that to the dead.

POLLY
But you’re not.

FRANCESCA
Sure as fuck seems like it.

POLLY
You’re talking to me right now, and drinking more than you should. The dead don’t do much else besides bloat and rot.

FRANCESCA
Once a month, I get bloated and feel rotten. Same diff.

POLLY
That has nothing to do with being dead and you know it. What’s with this pity parade?

FRANCESCA
A gal can’t feel fucking sorry for herself sometimes?

POLLY
Not when it leads to being self-destructive.

FRANCESCA
I don’t see any broken windows.

POLLY
I see empty bottles.

FRANCESCA
Ah, shut–

POLLY
They weren’t here last week when I was here. Which means they were bought recently. You’re the only one who lives here. Which means that your liver and bladder are at least 70-proof.

FRANCESCA
Maybe I wanted to pretend I’m in college again.

POLLY
You hated college.

FRANCESCA
Then my behavior isn’t so outstanding, is it?

POLLY
Yes, Francesca, yes, it fucking is. You’re better than this. You’re so much better than this. We used to make fun of people who did what you’re doing.

FRANCESCA
And what, my captain, am I doing that’s bait for our mocking eyes?

POLLY
You’re trying to burn whatever problem you’re going through with fire water, but it’s never the answer. Not in college. Not now. Not when you’re dead. Talk to me.

FRANCESCA
I am talking to you. See? “Hi, Polly! Sunny day, eh? Want a cracker?”

POLLY
Is it because of something I did?

FRANCESCA
“I bet you think this song is about you…”

POLLY
You’re trying to make me angry and you’re scaring me.

FRANCESCA
You want scary, you should look at what I left in the bathroom. It gets really hard to find the toilet sometimes.

POLLY
What? What the fuck is it?

FRANCESCA
I’ve got you swearing.

POLLY
Yes, Francesca, damnit. You’ve got me fucking swearing. Are you fucking happy now?

FRANCESCA
If I was happy, would I be surrounded by all these dead soldiers?

POLLY
I know what you’re trying to do.

FRANCESCA
Oh? Share your feelings with the group.

POLLY
You’re trying to push me away. You’re trying to make yourself the victim so that you can feel better about this bullshit you’re putting your body through.

FRANCESCA
Actually, this is high-end tequila.

POLLY
I don’t care, give it to me.

FRANCESCA
No. And if you try to take it from me, I will beat you to death with it, bitch, I don’t care how long we’ve been friends.

POLLY
You’d break the bottle.

FRANCESCA
And I would sip whatever I could off your corpse. You’ve had body shots done off of you, you know what that’s like.

POLLY
Did something happen with your family?

FRANCESCA
No, nothing happened with my family. Nothing ever happens with my family. Nothing never-ever happens with my fucking family. Fuck, I thought you were my friend.

POLLY
Stop being condescending.

FRANCESCA
I’ll be what I want, I’m grown.

POLLY
Yes, you are, so stop acting like a brat.

FRANCESCA
Ooo, “brat”! I thought I had you swearing. You should’ve said something more along the lines of “bitch”. Or are you going back to schoolyard swears, doody-head?

POLLY
I don’t get you right now.

FRANCESCA
You’re not supposed to.

POLLY
Did someone turn you down?

FRANCESCA
“Want a cracker?”

POLLY
That’s it? You’re destroying your life because of a piece of ass?

FRANCESCA
Would that make me the stereotype? Would my pain be less valid if I was a trope?

POLLY
Nothing about you is less valid, Francesca, it’s just that…

FRANCESCA
Just what? A woman can’t have her heart broken and be a mess? I’m sorry if I’m not evolved enough to match your critique on modern femininity.

POLLY
Was it a man?

FRANCESCA
Why would it matter? Heartache is heartache. I didn’t know agony depended on gender. It was a hermaphrodite. There. Now the feminists won’t know what to make of me.

POLLY
I don’t… I don’t get…

FRANCESCA
What? Just because you have thoughts different from mine about relationships doesn’t make my problems enigmatic. I never felt that your issues were weird. Your jumping from person to person because you got what you needed from them… that sort of thing made you you and those you dated knew what they were getting into.

POLLY
But you’re killing yourself over someone.

FRANCESCA
I’m mourning what could’ve been. If that’s too romantic for you, there’s the door. I didn’t ask you to be a part of this. Fuck, I didn’t even ask you to be here. Why did you come here in the first fucking place?

POLLY
I wanted to… I wanted to know if… if…

FRANCESCA
Speak, bitch.

POLLY
I wanted to know if you’d be my fucking wingman, ok? But I know how fucking ridiculously absurd that is now, with the state of you.

FRANCESCA
Yeah, I think it’d be a bad idea to bring the relapsed alcoholic into a situation that made her slip up in the first place.

POLLY
…you were an alcoholic?

FRANCESCA
Wanna see my chips? Or what’s left of them. I cut ’em all up last night.

POLLY
I didn’t know.

FRANCESCA
That’s the thing about drunks: they’re very clever about hiding their problems. At least, until they throw up on a cop after they bust you for a DUI.

POLLY
But you can’t let yourself go, I don’t care who hurt you.

FRANCESCA
That’s the thing about romantics: they can.

empty_glass_bottles_000056169688

Music Box

Posted in Fiction, Poem with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on March 10, 2016 by Rathan Krueger

I could let it die
As the music crawls to deafness
I could let it die
My fingertips, calloused from refrains, hover over the key
It knows my touch so well
Polished by hope and disappointments
I could let it die
Before I can stop myself, I twist the brass
Before I can hate myself, the melody ensnares me

The machinations start their heartache routine
And the tin figure moves down the twisted, turning track
It always begins with a bow towards me
To acknowledge that I’m here?
Or to greet my shame?
It never waits for me to return the gesture
To see how foolish I can be
Instead, the gears of longing work their magic
Sending it down a pristine, familiar road
Its tiny feet dangle helplessly

Which will it take?
The path will soon split into many branches
Like a tree waiting with disillusionment
The melody is sweet
I can almost taste the promises waiting to be broken
About me
About “you”
Click, click, click, click
The tin figure chooses the second one from the left
As always, I see my reflection in the dome

An automaton raises portenteously
As my avatar approaches without a choice
Its branchmates admire the show
With cotton popcorn and waxen tea
This is when they meet, when the branches begin to bud
This is when I fall, when the branches begin to bloom
This is when they kiss, when the blooms begin to rot
This is when tragedy returns, when the rot begins to choke
This is when tragedy remains, when the world begins to fade
The automaton stabs what could be me
And stabs, and stabs, and stabs, and stabs
The heart, the head, repeat, ad nauseum
Blood was spent years ago
What lurches out is a stream of consciousness
Onto pages with penstrokes
The tin figure returns to its home
As I wait for the music to end
But then, it’s all in my mind