Mid-week Blues Buster, week 22

Prompt: http://thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com/2013/07/16/mid-week-blues-buster-week-22/

The egg-crate padding on the wall cast multi-colored shadows in the flickering light from the equalizer. The only sound in the room was her heartbeat racing through her eardrums – the sound canceling effects were strong enough to dampen even the sound of her breathing. She grabbed one of the foam peaks and yanked it savagely, leaving an uneven and ragged edge behind. Now she heard something. His cry of pain, as sharp as if she’d torn off a piece of him, rang from his vocal cords, sweeter than any song he’d played for her in this sanctum.

But too much of that could cause problems.

“Can’t have that, now, can we? If someone came in here now, I don’t think they’d believe that you got your tongue ripped out when you walked into a door.

“Or your balls.” Here she nodded to the organs in question, displayed in a dyad of jars on top of the record cabinet. “Do you think they’ll buy that those just slipped out because you were clumsy?”

He jerked his head back and forth, but didn’t have the strength left to fight her off. The piece of insulating foam fit nicely in his mouth, now that his tongue wasn’t in the way.

The black stain of blood pooling on the floor under him was growing, and she knew that she’d have to speed things up, at least if she really wanted to hurt him before he died. She’d hoped to drag this out much longer, but he bled more quickly than she’d expected. It wasn’t to be helped, however – he was the expert at doling out pain.

She had taken plenty, though.

His record collection, he’d told her once, was the largest in the state, and maybe the country. And it was impressive. R&B from the fifties, British Invasion, Disco, Punk, Alternative, New Wave – he didn’t discriminate when it came to his music. He loved it all. She ran her fingers along the spines of the covers, whispering the names. And remembering.

None of the album covers were so much as creased. None save one. She slipped the offending record from its place, caressing the rip in the front cover. It ran between the couple on the cover, severing them from each other, much as she should have been severed from him that day.

Holding it in front of his face, she watched the fear radiate from his eyes. “You do remember. How sweet. That was our first anniversary, after all.

“And you were so excited. You’d finally bought me my own record, one I could place with yours. That I could play in here, in your space. But when I kissed you, it fell, and hit the edge of the coffee table.”

She opened the jacket and pulled out the record. It glimmered blackly, and she twisted it, looking at her reflection in the grooves. “The record was still pristine. Like the rest. Just a small tear in the cover on a record that was nearly thirty years old. I stopped vomiting blood after only a day that time.”

She drew a fingernail across the grooves, leaving a scratch through the songs on side one. He whimpered, and then moaned as she slammed the record over his head, watching the shards fly across the room.

The taboo broken, she turned back to the record cabinet and started adding to the debris on the floor. “Pet Sounds. The time I tripped and spilled soup on the rug.”

“Sgt. Peppers. When I laughed in church.”

“Never Mind the Bollocks.” She laughed. “Well, you won’t mind yours again.”

“Nevermind. Dark Side of the Moon. The Scream.”

She’d gotten louder and louder with each record, and finally she released a guttural cry and leaned into the cabinet pushing it over. With detachment, she watched the records at the top start to slip out before the cabinet really began to tilt, and roared with glee as it crashed down on him, crushing him to the ground.

“Sorry honey. You know I still love you, right? This will just be our little secret.”

The foam dampened the sound of the slamming door as she walked into a world without music.

700 words


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