November 1st, 2005

Writing no matter what: Round 2.

BANG!

The bottle of wine came crashing from its resting place on top of the refrigerator as soon as I had made my way by it. No later than a fraction of a second after my feet had cleared the bulls-eye of this bottle's suicide, it came falling from sky like someone had pushed it, making no noise and no notion of its existence in midair until it hit the ground in a fit of glass. There was no stopping this suicide attempt; no clues, no signs, no chance to change its mind. Suddenly, in an unstoppable moment, there were only six bottles up there, and six felt so fewer than seven.


Although it had jumped from the third story of our refrigerator, the bottle looked much more like it'd blown its brains out right on our kitchen floor. The splatter of its blood, guts, and insides reached at least three feet from its initial landing point, and the bullet had gone straight through until its brain was an explosion of vulgarity and indecency. It didn't look like a suicide. It looked like a murder. A cold-blooded murder. Its blood oozed in every direction away from the center when its label still stuck intact, bent between two broken pieces of glass. There were streams of emission leaking eerily over our floor, like it was slowly sliding across the floor. It looked like a creature's head had been blown off with a pistol, and all of its insides were like poison. Everything it touched it stained. Everywhere you looked there was glass. Everything about it seemed peculiar and not as much of an accident as it had first appeared.


Its eyes were like stone. Nothing moved in that reading, just stared up into the ceiling as it swam in a linoleum sea of wine and blood. It drowned a little more in its own discharge while its loss was mourned and contemplated to no end. Its appearance on that floor was so ghostly and disturbing that you could almost hear the scream it made right before it hit the ground echoing in your ears. We looked down at the broken bottle of stolen wine, saddened by its helplessness and vulnerability. Even though the substance may as well have been toxic and poisonous, deadly to the touch, it looked like the life of something that had so much left to give was there wasted all over our floor. And then there were six.



R.I.P.