Making Her Way Through The Winter

Melody met a man, Melody killed a man. It was the same as yesterday and the week before. Her motions were so simple now, just a thrust and a bit of a calming voice. Melody had grown accustomed to murder and she could barely feel it’s stain growing upon her. In his last breaths the man wanted his mother. Melody thought to make fun but she knew one day she’d speak the same. Ten dollars richer but ten degrees colder.

It was spring but Melody was still making her way through the winter. She was living in those moments between fires and destroying anything that might stop her from meeting the next sunrise. Mostly, she was degrading from woman to vampire, from someone to something. Slowly, she was killing those parts of her that were so weak as to feel guilt.

Melody lived in the crevices of the city. The world outside the underpasses was a strange place full of oddly blasé people in clothes that aren’t earned in the depths of dumpsters. This world was separated from her as if by thick glass. She would brave the glass wall once more. There was food for those who had ten dollars.

It was an old grocery where she bought her supplies; small, ragged and close to death at any given time. She felt okay being there, seeing it as a middle ground between her life and those incomprehensible people who had more than ten dollars at one time. Still, she worried about being found out. She worried about it more than when she killed. Killing seemed right, but capitalism felt alien.

She picked her honey rolls and drinks, all laden with sugar and fat. She walked up to the counter and the poor clerk beheld something he was in no way ready for. She was a small woman and made gray by the past week but more wretchedly, her shirt had streak of blood turned brown. The clerk accepted her money and reassured himself that if he didn’t make eye contact, she would soon be gone. Sure enough, she was. Magic. Back under a pass, there was another sunrise to survive and another day to stay as warm as she could.


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Carson Margedant
    May 02, 2011 @ 08:00:57

    Hurt by my lack of ability to indent. Anyways, this ended up being influenced by The Bell Jar, Perfume and the real life serial killer, Andre. If you never read The Bell Jar, I can’t recommend it highly enough. Sylvia Plath’s poetry always seemed over the top, but the woman really proves she knows depression. One of the great “I thought was the only one that felt that way” books.

    Btw, in case your from the future and have forgotten somehow, Osama Bin Laden is dead. Also, if your from the future, please tell me who wins the world series in 2011 and the next FIFA cup while you’re at it.


  2. somethingnewplease
    May 02, 2011 @ 13:41:57

    The funny thing about this story is what I like the best, which is the rhythm of time you have in the first two lines.

    Overall, I think it’s a great character piece, something I try to do often and usually end up somewhere else. It’s a tragic thing, and it would be nice if every person one were to meet had a map similar to this, something that explained them to the unacquainted.

    I’ll stop blathering now.



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