Passion.Mature

 

Ripe with the musk of sex and cheep whiskey, the air was thick.  It had the sort of oder that you could taste, the kind that settles in the back of your throat and burns.  To them this was paradise.  They reveled in the bliss of their ignorance, paying no regard to the world which was crumbling around them.  Weeks of neglected bills had left the house cold and dark - with the exception of the bathroom.  That was where they spent all their time.  It was there that they created art with their words, twisting them together and making them dance around the troubles of the world.  But they did nothing.  They did not move.

“Pass the poison,” he muttered with little enthusiasm.  Slouched against the mildewed tile wall he embodied what it meant to he jaded: he was young but felt old.  He reached forward a bit  to accept the bottle from his companion and brought it to his lips.  It’s aroma was pungent but comforting.  He took a sip and held it under his tongue for a moment, letting the alcohol seep into his bloodstream.  It was monotonous and predictable.

In the bathtub a young woman lay with her legs draped over the side.  She was nude but did not mind; she had succumbed naive rapture.  Her fingers beckoned for the bottle, but the young man disregarded them.  Frustrated she stirred, reaching over to nudge the needle of their gramophone onto a dusty old record.  It sang out dilapidated melodies of decades past and she smiled.  She had everything she wanted.

Outside wars raged on and cancer ran rampant.  There were no more seasons, only heat.  Humanity had lost what made it human: compassion.  Man and child alike stood in the streets and cried.

Back inside they did nothing.  They did not move.  They did not want to acknowledge their defeat.  They were still under the illusion that mankind would prevail.

Putting sloth aside the young man slouched toward the bathtub.  Gingerly he ran his fingers up and down his lover’s calves.  The record had ended.  All that remained was the soundless sound of its soft scratching.  He moved closer, the look in his eyes visceral.  His hands groped the supple flesh of her thighs, but the alcohol pulsing through her system had hindered her senses.  He pushed his nails deep into her flesh and she laughed in happy anarchy.  She was disjointed.  She knew not what was going on and he began to cry.

Crawling into the tub beside her, he watched the stagnant water engulf him inch by inch.  She smiled blankly.  Her eyes which had once been a piercing green were now muddled with gluttony.  She was tired.  They hadn’t slept in weeks, but hadn’t lived either.  Their purgatory was exhausting and captivating, they could not retreat into dreams.

Slowly he brought his face toward hers.  She could feel him breathing on her lips: in, out, in, out.  His breath was soft and warm, she wanted to curl up inside it and sleep forever.  She collapsed onto his chest, heaving with tearless sobs.  He kissed her on the nape.  “She still smells like lavender,” he thought to himself.  

And with that he held her underwater until she drowned.

The End

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