Writing challenge

[Tatile]

And I need... need...

There's a terrible thing my friends are doing to me. I call them friends, they're not, they just sit there and laugh at me behind their hideous mask faces, looking and watching and waiting. Singing, all the time, about what they love and what they like, what they want. I never ask, they always tell, always assume I can help them with this. I can't of course, that's not what I do. Money doesn't help people. I hate my money, I loathe it. It burns me, fiery pain that courses through my flesh and sits inside the back of my skull, taunting me. Like my friends. They tell me they like me, that they will always be my friend, but I know. I know. They lie, the lie and steal and cheat and curse and... and ...


It's morning and I'm dressed all in black.

There's only one friend I have - she speaks to me. She loves me. I suppose I love her. I fear her. She's everywhere, always with me. Always whispering, sitting next to the money. But I love her and she loves me.


I know I should eat these little pills. These tiny, little tablets of life. But they send Her away and I love Her. Oh how I love Her.


There are more voices now. Terrible, malign things that speak behind the masks faces of my not-friends. They speak and the voices speak and I can't hear Her anymore. I am a handsome man and I am a monster, I am a rich man and a pauper. I love Her, I hate Her, I need Her.


And the red, beautiful blood that drips down the drain reminds me I am real. And the red beautiful blood that drips down the porcelain reminds me I am truthful. And the red beautiful blood.


I love and I hate and I love and I eat those little pills and She goes away and I am free, but I'm not. I'll never be a free man because those tiny things always follow me around. The tiny little creatures of light and darkness and vicious hateful words are full of laughter and they sit on everyone's shoulders

It's evening and I wear all white and the blood is upon me and I rejoice for the masks are gone and I can see them for who they really are. And the terror imps cower from me because I am vengeance and I am just.


And the tiny cell I have is free from her and the imps. They wait outside and they watch and she begs me to return. In shame I lay my head to the floor and I weep. Because I saw what was beneath the masks. Only those weren't masks my friends were wearing.

Oh, they weren't masks.

 

[Tatile]

It flipped, turning out in the air as a great, doughy angel. She caught it with fists up right, careful not to piece the fine craftsmanship. Again it flew into the air, higher than before, calling out to the ceiling above. The circle landed for the last time, its form now finished. A thing of beauty, she treated it with a sort of holy reverence. The sides did not need to be neatened - it was perfect in its own way. Too many regarded the base as something to be discarded - a rude interruption to their feasting on meats and cheeses. But no, it was the base, and the loving that went into its design, that made a pizza. Sauce does never touch the edge - it burns then. A smaller circle of thin red danced onto the slab, widening to taunt at the edges. The waltz of foods surrounded her in the kitchen, all manner of exotic treats lining the walls. Green ovals, freshest of those picked, poured from their jar, the tang of their scent mingling with the fresh dough and sauce. Cut in halves they were slung almost carelessly onto the pizza - perfection comes not to those who try. The fine, sweet nature of her sundried fruits were irresistible and they, too, landed with a splash. And, for no pizza is complete without flesh, the light discs of meat fell in.

Cheese, oh only the finest of cheeses would do, covered the feast in its warm embrace. Here Katie with was done with the process of creation, but a pizza is not done until it is eaten. With flour covered hands the pizza was slipped from counter to slab and placed into the confines of heat and flame.

Ah, it is good to eat of one's labour.

 

[Tatile]

Stale must drifted in through the doorway. Lazy Sundays are nothing days, where the world slips slowly by, existing as it would. The plants on the window sill had long since started to die, the last holding on through remorse. Another pill slid slowly down his throat. Melancholy sat heavily within his stomach, filling him up with emptiness. Her name had been Rachel. She had not been beautiful, nor ugly, nor simply plain. She had been there, but now she was with another man. At least, that was what he assumed. Rachel still came and went, the same as ever, but never saying 'hello' in the way she used to.

"Clean your socks! This is disgusting, everything smells of cheese!" The door slammed behind her. A gust of air blew more of the stale stench his way, only the barest hint of her perfume was there.

Time passed and the shadows grew longer. Another pill refuelled his melancholy and he sat, slumped in his chair. Waiting for a non-occurrence, for an un-making. The phone rang and he ignored it. Shadows filled the room, pulling everything to night. Little lights flickered about outside, colouring the ceiling in yellows and oranges. The phone rang again, just as the pounding started at the door.

What to do. What to do.

"Danny! Danny?!" Her voice came from the phone and the door. Two places calling to him, but only one to answer. What to do. What to do. "Danny, it's your mum." What to do.

The door opened. Its hinges had been oiled recently, but only with a lard that stopped it halfway. He looked at her dimly; their dank, dark surroundings in great confusion. Spiders crawled down her face in streaks and bats flew in her hair.

"Oh Danny, Danny I'm sorry."

She slept in his bed, away from the dusted smell of cheese. He stayed in the chair, waiting for nothing now. His flat seemed now too small, but also suffocatingly large. No tears shed from him and no sound did he make. Another pill slipped into fingers. This time though, he let it fall to the floor. Night dragged on - there was no silence or solitude. The heavy breathing of his mother was almost oppressive. The screams of the neighbours was barely a diversion. More of his pills fell to the floor and he crushed them underfoot.

Fathers are strange people. Strange people are full of strange motives. The pills had been his father's idea. They had worked, for a while. But one does not live when numb. There was no need for his pills now, though. With his father gone, he was numb to the core. No medication could hope to emulate the feeling of hopelessness as one gets when so much has been lost.