Wicked Ways and the Broken Telephone

Six tears shed over you. I counted. After that, those ducts ran dry. The switchboard girls crowded around me, oohing and aahing and clucking their tongues. Like hens on the nest. Didn’t they know I needed my space?

I threw down my headset, watching it ricochet off splintered wood panels. Dusty corners sent up plumes of grey smoke.

Blinding light and nauseous haze. I ran for home, beat down by summer vehemence.

Strange odours. Peculiar feelings. I grabbed the knife, plunged it into the pillows. Again. I was liberated, until the lump shifted. It wore a face like yours, remorse and pain etched in shifting degrees.


Copyright © 2015 by Emily Clayton
Originally appeared on Micro Bookends:

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