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This work is licensed
under a Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial
4.0 International License.

Postmodern Village
est. 1999
e-mail * terms * privacy

No. I haven't missed you at all.
by Francine DuBois

He lied, the untruth bubbling through his teeth
Like a rabid dog's froth.

He had his sledgehammer and was bludgeoning the heads of all her dolls.
But yes, he did miss her, in a way
He could not fathom -- an element of him was tied up in her
(very tightly, with an 25-ft indoor-outdoor extension cord) --
anger, yes, but all he knew about love too.

And if he lost that, if he lost her, what would he have but emptiness?

So he stopped smashing dolls heads when he saw her
And pretended to be strong.

"I'm not supposed to know about this, I can tell," she smirked as she hugged him,
Full of manipulation. They both knew she was heading to another lover's house.
They both knew she'd be back for dinner: he'd make meatloaf.

"You're taking such good care of me: destroying the bad parts of my childhood
So I don't need to, so I'm not saddled with their faces." She kissed his cheek
And skipped to the car he bought her.

He continued his work.

 

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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