I remember nothing and all, unable to recall how long I’ve laid here. Memory is slippery that way.
Cold slides across my body, stiffening my joints. Brittle bones ache. My lax muscles remind me of my diminishing compactly.
My dry eyes no longer see. The last light waning some time ago, leaving me shrouded in darkness’ embrace.
Foul odor mingles with stale, musky air, extinguishing my appetite. Its tangled webs stick to me. I no longer breathe or move, trapped a shrinking shell. I find small comfort in my silken cocoon.
I scream, but no one hears. Footsteps pass me by. No one visits. No voices keep me company. Nobody warms me. Silence stretches around me.
Time marches by, my hope dwindles. Hindsight is a tricky bitch. I should’ve chosen be cremated.
I can’t move, breathe, speak or hear and it’s so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would have been cremated instead.
Katty’s Korner and Her Pet Peeves
Scratch Level: Cat Scratch Fever
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t get frustrated or angry on the road. It’s why the term Road Rage was invented. So, here’s my Katty Comment:
I leave home in plenty of time to make my stops (got to get a caffeine fix) and for the construction work being done on the road, so that I can make it to work on time. But some people aren’t that conscientious.
No, they have to rush, pushing the petal to metal. They ride up on your ass, flash their brights, demanding that you yield to their temper tantrum. They’re in rush to get to work on time because they didn’t leave on time.
Well guess what? I don’t have to. Unless, I’m feeling generous and decided to move into the next lane. I will slow down (Mind you I don’t hit my brakes, but let my car gradually slow down). Then, if you move into the other lane and there’s a car in front of you, I will speed up so I’m next to that car and you can’t get over. Ha Ha. (I just hope one day I don’t get my ass shot.)
They swish in and out of traffic, changing lanes like they change their underwear, nearly causing accidents. They don’t care.
Well, I hope you get a ticket.
Here’s my philosophy on being late. If your going to be late, then be late, like fifteen or twenty. Not a measly five or ten minutes.
Scream No More
The past bleeds into the future, piercing the silky veil, and evenings fill with broken dreams.
Screams peel through the night at witching hour. She howls till gray’s end. I cover my ears, and squeeze my eyes shut, wishing she’d stop. Time is unforgiving and madness descends like whispers in flight. My mind splinters.
Her voice is unfailing, for long hours she wails. My head hurts. I pull my hair’s ends. Shadows circle my eyes. My shrunken face ashen. I’ve forgotten when last I slept or ate.
My steps are light. My vision blurred. The trail vivid in my memory, I ease between the green on barefoot. Branches scratch, shrubs tear.
Embracing the stone she rest under, she does not accept my comfort. My pleas for silence are unheard, escape impossible. It never stops. Unwilling to bend, my daughter is not ready.
My daughter won’t stop crying and screaming in the middle of the night. I visit her grave and ask her to stop, but it doesn’t help.
Level: Scratch behind the ear.
Now that it’s spring in Ohio (finally!); the roads are congested with motorcycles. They ride in groups of two or more with one or two on a bike, speeding through the streets and highways, loud and annoying.
The groups are the worst, spreading out and hogging the road and looking like a nest of roaches. Turn on the lights and the scatter.
But here’s my peeve: Motorcyclist (not all, but most) think because a there’s a small space between cars, they can slide in between and not use their blinker or hand signal. If a car can’t fit, neither can you. Stay in your lane.
Level: Flea infestation
I live in a small city in Northeast Ohio. So, our library’s book sale is small.
Every quarter my local library has a book sale. If you are member of the Friends of the Library program, you get to attend the preview night, the night before the actual sale.
Items come in from other libraries and community donations and are gently used. But whatever the case is, the funds support our libraries.
By this point, you’re probably wondering what the point of this story is, why it’s labeled a Katty Comment. Well, here you go.
The event doesn’t start until 5pm. I get there about 10 minutes early, so that I can take care of some other transactions before the sale. When I get to the 2nd floor, the line is about 20 deep and I heard one guy had been there since 3:30pm. Now that’s not the worse part.
I stuck in line with the following:
- The guy in front of me has on too much cologne. (I’ve got bad allergies) .
- No one stands in a straight line, and everyone is in each other’s personal space. (Back off bitches. I need room to breathe).
- The lady behind me is an explosion of germs by snottin’ and coughin’ and the guy behind her is sneezing and snotty. (I’m afraid I’ll be sick in the next couple of days.) Oh, by the way, he brought in a 5 gallon tub. I know what you’re up to, and it ain’t right (more on that in a minute).
Now it’s a few minutes before and one of “Friend” does his spiel and then opens the flood gate (there’s only one door). I’m carried in on a tide of cattle acting like it’s feeding time.
It’s a tight fit between the tables and everyone’s got boxes. Finally I make way to the audio section and don’t you know it, tub boy is there, throwing movies into his bin because he plans to sell them at a higher price (probably at a flea market or something). How about some bull. He shouldn’t be allowed to come in on a preview night (that should be just for patrons) and do that.
If that wasn’t bad enough, he was talking to another guy who kept saying that this has always been a mediocre book sale, and kept repeating it. I finally said (out loud) “They why do you come?”
What’s the worst line you’ve every stood in?