In the kitchen, dirty dishes smirk gleefully, The circular, rhythmic rasp of Brillo pad on porcelain. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. An advertisement for bleach. A backfired exhaust. The tick of the clock in the hall. Tick, Scratch, Flick. Over, and over, and over again. An aching lower back, Tight shoulders, Discontented mind. Tick, Scratch, Flick. The clank of a plate in the sink. Marigolds dropped to the countertop. Magazine tossed in the trash. Groceries, Laundry, Hairspray, Lipstick, Cufflinks, Whiskey, Ironing. Leaning against the countertop, Head bowed, A deep exhale, A pause. Tick. The smash of china against plaster, The clattering of steel cutlery on the floor, A radio hurled against the wall, Liquor cabinet thrown onto its side, Broken glass, Carpet fibres drowning in single malt, Curtain rail torn down, Brown material slashed. Rage. A rush to the bedroom, Cufflinks strewn across the floor, Bedding ripped from the mattress,
Dress torn, Cigarette sought, Nightstand tipped, Lighter seized, Coat snatched. Ironing board overturned. Door slammed. Silence. Shirts, His shirts, Left to quietly singe in this godforsaken, airless box. The faint rumble of traffic outside. Tick, tick, tick. By Amelie A (Year 12) By Masha I