At Rope's End
by
Diana Trees
Wattpad Edition
© Diana Trees 2010
dianatrees@gmail.com
Wattpad Edition, License Notes
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
At Rope's End
Monique stared anxiously at the dirty, white tavern across the street. It had no windows; no Miller neon lights; no flags; only a blood-red sign, gleaming against the night. "Rope's End" the sign proclaimed in dark, arterial letters.
Monique crossed the street to the bar, ignoring the roaring traffic and the curses thrown sidelong into the night. She stopped before going in and stroked the door.
"It's been a long time," she murmured.
Monique pushed the door open, stood in the doorway and let her eyes adjust to the dark, smoky room. Directly opposite the door, a mirror stretched the length of the bar. It had been shattered, then glued to the wall in its original configuration. Candlelight flickered in the mirror, distorting the faces of those who looked into it.
The bar itself was a heavy walnut construction, stained almost black and hand-rubbed to a dull gloss. The chairs in front of the bar were high-backed and wrought iron, made more for decoration than human comfort: Every chair had a patron.
To the right of the bar, in a corner by itself, a railroad tie jutted from the wall. A noose dangled from its protruding end. On the left wall was a small stage, closed at either end with black curtains.
Monique squinted into the glom and saw an old lover seated at a burn-scarred table. She walked over and sat down at his table.
"Hello, John," she whispered.
John looked up from his drink. "Monique. I haven't seen you in quite a while."
"I've been ... away."
John nodded. "I heard. Was it your mother?"
"No."
A scuffling on the bar's small stage prevented Monique from saying more. She turned and saw a man with almost no facial features - no eyes, no ears, only a moist pit for a nose - drag a chair across the wooden floor. He had a trumpet in his other hand.
Monique looked questioningly, first at the stage, then at John. John shrugged his shoulders. Monique saw that though the man had been born without eyes, the wounds to his ears and nose had been self-inflicted, jagged and imprecise.
"What can you expect from a blind man?" she thought.
The man settled in his chair, put the trumpet to his lips and began to play. John lit a cigarette.
Monique and John listened to the lonely fervor of the blues trumpet, idly tapping their feet to its harsh beat.
The cigarette John held - a Camel non-filter - had gone out, smothered by is nerveless right hand.
