Grime Noir

This Week's Prompt: "False Epiphanies" - Think of a time when you had an epiphany, but it turned out to be wrong. (Yeah, because I didn't get that in the title.) Inspired by:



The bed creaks as I stand up. It’s a bitter night. The heating in this room is shot. Nights like these are the hardest, the longest. Winter in this city is relentless. It’s the first night I’ve spent in a motel though. I wasn’t missing much. The TV is busted. The shattered monitor only shows a rerun: The scarred man sitting on the edge of a bed, wondering when the burns won’t be noticeable. I mumble something about revenge against the arsonist who forever rendered me unlovable. There’s frost forming on the window. I’m a living, breathing irony. Then I remember why I’m here.

I switch on the lamp. The soiled lampshade stains the room a dirty yellow. The dame on the bed looks good in the light. Maybe I’m just saying that just because she’s here. Her delicate frame is resting on her elbows. She looks up at me. Her red locks of hair cover half of her face. How did I end up here? I’ve bottled up the city and poured it down my ready throat every night since the burn. Same time. Same bar. Same drinks. Nothing was “same” about her when she walked in. Only in bad movies do you see reactions like the one’s she caused. Why did she pick me?

I lay back down on the bed. She rolls on top of me. She says her name is Blondie. The pop-singer doesn’t compare. If there was a Heaven, angels wouldn’t compare. Blondie is perfect. And she wants me.

* * *

The sheets cling to my sweaty back as I stand up. It’s a sticky morning. The window’s completely frosted. In this room, I’m no longer the irony. I’m no longer unlovable. Blondie showed me that. She picked me. She wanted me. Wants me. For the first time in a long time, I don’t wake up cynical of the world. I turn around and Blondie is dressed. She is standing with one hand on her hip. “So, like, can you pay me. I got kids to get home to.”