Marla's Boy

Marla had spent her entire adult life watching game shows on tv; taking comfort in the knowledge that all that useless crap they'd taught her in school was still somehow..relevant. It wasn't gratifying, just proof that she was sat on the sidelines, a spectator of life. Because Marla knows that cigarettes and drugs and alcohol and sex, and friends you don't like and Tv shows you don't get and parents who left you to the wolves and all those f*****g calories are only really problems if you plan on living for the long term.

Marla doesn't.

She lights another cigarette. 

Marla never wanted to be happy. She just wanted to be somebody. The sad thing about Marla is that she never really got around to specifying who it was she wanted to be.  And now look at her, she's a monster. A lubricant, a way of keeping score, piece of the pie, promises...the applaud. These days everyone's either taking drugs, sleeping or having sex. Marla's watching Tv game shows and eating dry frosties from a bowl with her fingers. Chewed dirty nails.

And where is her boy tonight? Playing the gentleman in some backstreet boudoir whilst Marla turns cheap tricks, blowing smoke at the walls wearing nothing but a filthy nightdress in magnolia. But the walls don't talk. Not to Marla anyways. Nobody talks to Marla. She's all alone. Only her reflection keeps her company now. And what a reflection it is. Lips like perfect Cupid bows, cheekbones like geometry, eyes that do not shine. Sculpted by God himself. But guilt riddles her. Marla feels bad when she feels good for fear of feeling worse when she feels better. First world problems. She throws herself onto the sofa. Soft, plush, comfortable. It sinks beneath her weight. She blows rings of smoke up to the ceiling; once she was so happy she could die. Wasn't she? Back then, swaying in the cool moonlight, he watching her, her watching him. Dressed in red, her shoes in her hands, cigarette in her mouth. Had she become addicted to a certain kind of sadness?

And if he comes home tonight? Audio tune lies, that glint in his eyes. Oh he's wicked but Marla loves the bad ones. Drunk; Wearing his leather jacket like James Dean. He returns like a king to his castle. 

No hello.

Blow me a kiss baby, baby don't you love me?

Don't you love me?

Don't you?

Marla's drowning in whiskey and tears. 

The rain rattles against the windows. Is he her Frankenstein. She begs him not to leave. 

Don't leave.

He looks right through her. Begins mounting the stairs, swaying slightly, the smell of sweet cologne lingering in the air. She turns away, crying- lights another cigarette and returns to the sofa. This is when the games show ends, and the background noise ceases, and there's nothing but the cold silence.