-Midnight Thoughts...and some...-

aLgOnViE

There's a story with quite an unexpected ending.

It starts on an empty road, as empty as one can be in the middle of nowhere, a sunday late night or early morning, depending how one sees it. A red truck is rumbling, zooming down the road well over the limited speed.

It was silent inside, except for the nervous tap of a finger on steering wheel, laboured breathing, and the soft tune of a piano. The station was off. The driver, a man, had his eyes set on the road, cold and calculating.

Soon enough, he parked the car in the parking lot of a motel,

The piano is still playing.

and he got out, feet meeting the ground in an heavy thud. He quickly went over to the passenger side, opening the door suddenly.

A woman's hands meet the keys brutally.

There, on the passenger seat, was a woman, eyes closed and face set in an emotionless expression, and as the man unbuckled her fastened seatbelt, and carried her out, she remained unbothered and unmoving. He started walking toward the lobby of the small venue, quickly but he was careful to not jostle her too much. He asked for a room with a double bed, for one night.

« Thirty. », the old man at the counter said in a gruff tone, narrowing his eyes at the two.

The man slid the hundred bill he already had in hand and, with little difficulty, took the keys.

The melody is sickening, too rapid, too loud, as if the woman is running out of time,

As he walked away, he only heard the suddenly jovial tone of the man as he wished him a really great night, a creepy smirk on his lips. He did not answer.

The room was small and dirty, the smell of booze and cigarette hitting him in the face.

He winced.

She did not react.

He put her down on the bed, and took her hand in his, desperately trying to warm it. Oh, how cold it was, that pale and delicate hand. Oh, how stiff it was, that cold and unmoving hand.

Oh, how cold can a dead person's hand be?

her eyes are screwed shut, her hands are shaking and she misses a note but goes on.

Oh! How cold can a dead person's hand be!

Her lips was now blue, and her eyes still closed, and he was sure it was the remnant of the lipstick she once wore, even though, less than three hours ago, a crimson red lipstick, as red as the color staining her once baby blue shirt, hidden under a thick leather jacket, was on her thin lips.

She goes on, and on, and on, until finally, in a movement akin to a punch in the face, she hits the last note.

He got up, walking fast in the bathroom, and stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, taking in his wide, blown out eyes filled with unshed tears and the darkening bruise on his cheek, the blood on his t-shirt. And breathed, a sharp and choked sound coming out of his throat, a sob, but he still breathed. And she didn't. And she couldn't.

It hurts. It hurts a lot, and she cries, and she begs, or at least she tries, but his hands are firm around the knife's dark handle, buried deep in her stomach.

It hurts. It hurts, but no one is here to help her.

It hurts. It hurts, until it doesn't hurt anymore.

Oh, how quiet can a dead person be.

He loved her. He loves her still. And that's why, while she was agonizing, her breath short and fast and ragged, he told her.

« I love you. »

And as she takes her last breath, a flash of disgust and hatred appearing in her beautiful eyes,

Oh, how beautiful they were those eyes.

it feels like he too is dying, he too is taking his last breath.

She is dead now, and here he is, trembling hands still around the hard handle of the knife, trapped in a cage of guilt and agony.

Oh, how quiet can a killer be.