Post by Alexandra Bishop on Mar 14, 2016 20:51:26 GMT
Dearest hagface Grace, that time I stepped on your grave at the cemetery, I instantly new what gravestone to rest my 40oz on. Since then I haven't been able to restart that flame for I have lost track of your burial plot. Dearest hagface grace if you are reading this (from hell, they support apples campaign for privacy) please contact me soon. I left the number to my pager under a stone where you lie.
Feb 23rd)
Mist drifted through the branches of large trees onto the manicured grass below. It was a warm summer morning between 3 and 4 a.m. In the pre-dawn darkness, gravestones stood erect in orderly rows. Their silhouettes glistened slightly from the moisture coating them. The birds in and around the cemetery were chirping softly, quiet reminders that they were there hidden in bushes. From the south entrance the clanging of a gate could be heard. A man swung forward, leaning heavily on the gate, its metal spikes driving into his torso. But he appeared not to feel the pain. In his hand he gripped a 40oz of Narragansett. He was wearing a brown coat and sweatpants, he was slightly balding and with a pink face fresh with sweat. From the shadows on his cheeks one could tell that he had not bothered shaving in awhile. It was February 23rd.
Justin pushed off the gate and stumbled into the cemetery taking long strides. He was clenching his teeth together and running his hand through thinning hair, speaking to himself. It had been a long day of drinking, and preceding that a long week of curing hangovers with morning pick-me-ups. It had been 9 days since he was last sober, and on that occasion he had finally built up enough courage to ask out his coworker Janet. She was a few years older than Justin and often ran the register next to his, ringing out customers with a bored expression on her tired face. He thought it would be romantic, asking a woman out on Valentine’s day. They both worked 2nd shift as well so it would have been perfect. She had never shown interest in Justin, and he knew that. But he hadn’t laid with a woman in close to a year. And from what he gleaned from the other coworkers, Janet was also single and acted even more miserably than he. He hoped that two lonely, less than average-looking people could keep each other company. When she said no to grabbing drinks later, he said “Ok” and ran his fingers through his hair looking down at the floor. There a piece of gum stuck flat to the tiles, black with dirt and dust. He gazed down at it, his hand in his pocket fingering the edges of his Motorola pager. When he knew Janet had turned away he let go of the pager and began closing down his register.
Now, Justin didn’t pay any attention to where his feet were bringing him. The grass was slick beneath his feet and he fell several times, cursing “Fuck” and “Shit-hole” to no one. Soon his pants were splotchy from mud. After several minutes of wandering through the gravestones he let himself slump against the nearest one, taking another swig from the Narragansett. He was wide awake but plastered; he let his bloodshot eyes wandered the landscape. “Bitch Janet” he said.
After Janet rejected him he spent the next week being cold to her, more to preserve his own dignity than to spite her. Then he got angry when she didn’t appear to notice. He stopped asking how her day was and eyed her whenever she rang out a male customer, gauging her reaction and trying to see if she showed them any kindness. She didn’t, and this made him even angrier. What’s her deal?
Still slouched against the gravestone, Justin took another swig from his beer and placed it on top of the stone that read “Grace Adams 1962-2001” followed by a quote that he couldn’t make out. He was looking more at the sketch of a woman’s face beneath the words: an artist’s rendition of the deceased. “Why bother?” Justin thought. Her nose was too big and there were wide spaces between some of her teeth. She had a double chin that the artist had decided not to leave out. Justin studied her face with blurry eyes and scratched his belly, conscious of his own appearance too. He hated feeling like a bloated drunk and how neglecting to take care of himself makes himself feel even worse. He looked the way he felt: shitty. Next to Grace’s grave was another that read “Ronald Adams 1959-2001”. Justin read this over several times before comprehending that this man must have been her husband. He married her, he thought, and she was worse looking than Janet.
“Bitch Janet” he slurred, “Hagface Grace.”
Stupid, he thought, snickering. But he stopped laughing. Saliva creeped into the sides of his mouth and he felt sudden nausea. He breathed in heavily before throwing up the night’s beer into the mud. His eyes watered and he crouched there, spitting the taste of vomit out. He felt like a mess and he was so dizzy and sick that he started to cry. All of the emotions that he had kept pent-up over the past years came rushing out. He balled like a baby because he didn’t want to be drunk anymore. He didn’t want to pretend like everything was okay. He was covered in vomit and mud, sitting at the grave of hagface Grace. Her crooked smile, the mist covering her face made it look like she was alive. He cried harder because she couldn’t reject any of it. She just kept smiling at him.
Six days later, the cemetery off Franklin Street. Close to midnight. From a corner of the cemetery comes Justin’s voice, shouting in drunken slurs. With a rustle, the birds in the nearby trees take flight. “Where are you?” Justin yells, picking up stones and hurling them away from him. One of them hits a gravestone and chips a piece off. “Grace…GRACE!” he yells with a desperate tone in his voice. He tries taking off at a run and his feet get tangled. He falls over and sprawls on the ground, wishing he could find her. “Please,” he cries, trying to remember where her burial plot is. In his mind he sees her crooked smile, and that’s all he holds on to.
Feb 23rd)
Mist drifted through the branches of large trees onto the manicured grass below. It was a warm summer morning between 3 and 4 a.m. In the pre-dawn darkness, gravestones stood erect in orderly rows. Their silhouettes glistened slightly from the moisture coating them. The birds in and around the cemetery were chirping softly, quiet reminders that they were there hidden in bushes. From the south entrance the clanging of a gate could be heard. A man swung forward, leaning heavily on the gate, its metal spikes driving into his torso. But he appeared not to feel the pain. In his hand he gripped a 40oz of Narragansett. He was wearing a brown coat and sweatpants, he was slightly balding and with a pink face fresh with sweat. From the shadows on his cheeks one could tell that he had not bothered shaving in awhile. It was February 23rd.
Justin pushed off the gate and stumbled into the cemetery taking long strides. He was clenching his teeth together and running his hand through thinning hair, speaking to himself. It had been a long day of drinking, and preceding that a long week of curing hangovers with morning pick-me-ups. It had been 9 days since he was last sober, and on that occasion he had finally built up enough courage to ask out his coworker Janet. She was a few years older than Justin and often ran the register next to his, ringing out customers with a bored expression on her tired face. He thought it would be romantic, asking a woman out on Valentine’s day. They both worked 2nd shift as well so it would have been perfect. She had never shown interest in Justin, and he knew that. But he hadn’t laid with a woman in close to a year. And from what he gleaned from the other coworkers, Janet was also single and acted even more miserably than he. He hoped that two lonely, less than average-looking people could keep each other company. When she said no to grabbing drinks later, he said “Ok” and ran his fingers through his hair looking down at the floor. There a piece of gum stuck flat to the tiles, black with dirt and dust. He gazed down at it, his hand in his pocket fingering the edges of his Motorola pager. When he knew Janet had turned away he let go of the pager and began closing down his register.
Now, Justin didn’t pay any attention to where his feet were bringing him. The grass was slick beneath his feet and he fell several times, cursing “Fuck” and “Shit-hole” to no one. Soon his pants were splotchy from mud. After several minutes of wandering through the gravestones he let himself slump against the nearest one, taking another swig from the Narragansett. He was wide awake but plastered; he let his bloodshot eyes wandered the landscape. “Bitch Janet” he said.
After Janet rejected him he spent the next week being cold to her, more to preserve his own dignity than to spite her. Then he got angry when she didn’t appear to notice. He stopped asking how her day was and eyed her whenever she rang out a male customer, gauging her reaction and trying to see if she showed them any kindness. She didn’t, and this made him even angrier. What’s her deal?
Still slouched against the gravestone, Justin took another swig from his beer and placed it on top of the stone that read “Grace Adams 1962-2001” followed by a quote that he couldn’t make out. He was looking more at the sketch of a woman’s face beneath the words: an artist’s rendition of the deceased. “Why bother?” Justin thought. Her nose was too big and there were wide spaces between some of her teeth. She had a double chin that the artist had decided not to leave out. Justin studied her face with blurry eyes and scratched his belly, conscious of his own appearance too. He hated feeling like a bloated drunk and how neglecting to take care of himself makes himself feel even worse. He looked the way he felt: shitty. Next to Grace’s grave was another that read “Ronald Adams 1959-2001”. Justin read this over several times before comprehending that this man must have been her husband. He married her, he thought, and she was worse looking than Janet.
“Bitch Janet” he slurred, “Hagface Grace.”
Stupid, he thought, snickering. But he stopped laughing. Saliva creeped into the sides of his mouth and he felt sudden nausea. He breathed in heavily before throwing up the night’s beer into the mud. His eyes watered and he crouched there, spitting the taste of vomit out. He felt like a mess and he was so dizzy and sick that he started to cry. All of the emotions that he had kept pent-up over the past years came rushing out. He balled like a baby because he didn’t want to be drunk anymore. He didn’t want to pretend like everything was okay. He was covered in vomit and mud, sitting at the grave of hagface Grace. Her crooked smile, the mist covering her face made it look like she was alive. He cried harder because she couldn’t reject any of it. She just kept smiling at him.
Six days later, the cemetery off Franklin Street. Close to midnight. From a corner of the cemetery comes Justin’s voice, shouting in drunken slurs. With a rustle, the birds in the nearby trees take flight. “Where are you?” Justin yells, picking up stones and hurling them away from him. One of them hits a gravestone and chips a piece off. “Grace…GRACE!” he yells with a desperate tone in his voice. He tries taking off at a run and his feet get tangled. He falls over and sprawls on the ground, wishing he could find her. “Please,” he cries, trying to remember where her burial plot is. In his mind he sees her crooked smile, and that’s all he holds on to.