Wednesday, February 11, 2009

by Trent Jamieson

Paper thin walls. Cheap rent. The Real Estate didn't say anything about those tears: like they would.

The Weeper weeps. Next door weeping. Always fucking weeping. Used to know his name. Forgot it. Just the Weeper now.

Still I wave if ever we're out on our balconies. Wave and smile. Polite as all hell, watering my succulents. Waves back too.

But that damn crying. Gets under your skin. Pierces the earplugs, rests in my aorta; a throbbing ache. Shit, let me tell you. It settles there. Fucking earplugs. I spent up big on those. Back when I could afford to.

I lie in my bed, curled up away from that sound. In the heat, sweating out my day, but never enough of it. No way to spend the summer nights with all that crying.

Midnight long past, and there's weeping and no sleep. All that so-so-sobbing. Red and red. I slap my hand against the wall. I shake the walls. I growl. And the fucking engine of tears runs on.

Enough. Enough. Enough!

My knuckles crash against the door. One of my earplugs drops to the ground. I kick it away in disgust.

The weepers eyes swim in their moat of tears.

But I'm all rage.“Why the FUCK ARE YOU CRYING?”

“Because I knew you would come.”

He pulls me through the doorway, easily, and shit, I'm not little. The Weeper Weeps. The door closes.

In this room, I know at last why the rent is so damn cheap. Bodies float in all that salty water, turn and tumble in our wake. Him crying and dragging me, deeper and deeper into the tears. The Weeper Weeps.

“Sorry,” he says, and pushes me under.

And I get a moment, a moment of such sweet silence that I forgive him for what comes next.

1 comment:

Krissy Kneen said...

well Ronnie Scott is a serial killer, but that would be too obvious wouldn't it