around midnight, 3.a.m. and a PSA

around midnight, 3.a.m. and a PSA
 
110 pieces of writing since #singpowrimo2016. I’m gonna stop writing for a few days to re-evaluate my existence as a writer. getting a bit automaton. the dreams are wearing the page out, but here’s a noirish piece i wrote but didn’t post before, with a small part 2 on monday. Back on wed to #dailywriting. Thanks to everyone for reading!
_____________________________
 
 
boxer in gaslight, in the office of cigarette smoke, the boxer wrapping her bloody hands, sweat in her thick hair, upper body in bandages. cracked ribs. she will eventually extend her hair again, to remake fine instruments of strangulation.
 
the boxer opens my black box for tobacco mixed with black flowers. she can’t find rolling papers. I hand her the pipe.
 
it’s raining outside, of course. all flash lightning with no thunder, but sirens, always sirens in this bleak, dark town. I watch her stuff the pipe, hands trembling.
 
“The garage in chinatown, by the fish market, they will have your passport ready in an hour.”
 
she doesn’t look up at me, fumbles around for a mud dirtied zippo. lights up the roots and leaves in the bowl, sucks hungrily at it, to appease the growling stomach, to calm the adrenaline high.
 
the phone is a dead animal, no way for anyone to contact or warn us, in case things went south, in case the bodies were found in that dim alley. i hope no one had seen and recognised her. That unmistakable limp.
 
“it was fucking hard to keep him down,” she finally says. “he kept yelling my name…”, eyes glazing over, smoke in her brain. Had anyone heard him? Above the din of rain?
 
“Go down the elevator shaft,” i tell her as I start opening drawers, stuffing vials of cloudy and melancholic liquid, bullet shells, a badge, various capsules of hypnotics, a tarot deck, and an amulet, into my long coat pockets. The book of XOL, a spare black shirt, various instruments of torture in a pencil case and the leather mask goes into my dark grey sling bag.
 
I turn the gas lamp low. He does not kiss me goodbye, maybe once, when she still had that dress, she would have, but not tonight. tonight, the gas lamp goes out and the office is empty again, window open, rain beating in.
 
#irvingpaulpereira
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