I salute the picture of you on the wall. A single nail keeps it ascended, straight and vibrant enough for me to see your sublime features. In my dreams, this picture has been tarnished by fidgety hands, ripped apart, and thrown into a coal fire which rages on. Those dreams, they put pressure on my heart, and they devour my senses, while increasing my anxiety. I relieve the situation by getting up and moving on through this house that is too small for me to let my inner rage transpire.

The coffee cups are stacked up and the old magazines I used to write for are stacked up too, creating an image of lost opportunity. Those days were highlights, times when love was interwoven into youth, and when I didn’t give a shit about finances and the pressure on my heart. Every day was a full of sexual explosions, drinking to excess, feeling alive, and seeing the world through a daze. Growing up has ruined me. It has taken away the satisfaction of sitting writing poems about bleak suburbia.

Let’s get dressed, my mind tells me. Let’s seep into the world and be a noble human being worthy of praise. I can’t be this picture of good health, and a man good enough to change the direction the world is heading. We’re all robots, I guess, trying to direct ourselves to the promised land, putting all our money on a revolution, which in truth, will never happen.

Nothing happens in suburbia. Nothing noteworthy anyway. Psychopaths do not carry their weapons of choice through these parts, and the police sit in their cars and eat, sleep, and repeat their daily routines. The aging houses are rotting to the core, the electricity goes out on too many occasions, and this town doesn’t send ripples of joy throughout modern day America.

I shave my beard; I put on clothes; I listen to heavy metal. The raucousness gives me hope, the loud sounds offer me drama when drama died a while ago in this beat up town. Although, the couple next door disapproves of my choices, my music taste, and the way I go about my business. They’re weird, those people, keeping their curtains shut as the sun blares and bakes the roads and pavements.

I lower the tone and turn off the music. I hear screaming; I hear intense screaming, like a wild animal has been shot. Whimpering sounds come from next door. Could these paper-thin walls be hiding something? It stops, though. The raging bull has stopped, and all that whimpering has been suppressed.

Could this be the end of the girl? The weird one?

This unconventional couple which stands behind their own woes and hardships. But then, I could be wrong. They could be sleeping off the alcohol, the dregs, and the pain.

Through my own experiences, I might need to go next door and confront this enigmatic duo? Will I take a bottle of whiskey, some bread, some prescription medication, my heart and soul?

I knock on the door. No one answers. I knock again. Someone answers.

‘’Hi, I’m Sean from next door. I think this is the first time we’ve met?’’

His eyes aren’t oceanic blue, they’re black and emotionless.

‘’Yeah, I think so. Can I help you with something?’’

‘’No, not really, just wanted to say hi’’

‘’Okay’’

‘’Nice tattoo of a rising phoenix’’

‘’Well we all rise from the ashes at some point’’

‘’Yeah, I guess we do’’

‘’Is that everything?’’

I take out a joint from my pocket. His eyes widen.

‘’Do you smoke?’’

‘’Haven’t in a while’’

‘’Do you want to smoke this with me?’’

He takes time to respond. But does so in a positive way.

‘’Okay, let’s be quick’’

I enter his house. I can’t engage with the décor or the TV screen that shows mutilation.

‘’Do you always watch such depraved things?’’

‘’I treat it like an art-form’’

‘’Okay’’

‘’Let’s light this’’

I spark the joint, and he takes the first draw.

‘’Here’’

‘’No go ahead, smoke it all’’

‘’You sure’’

‘’Yeah’’

He becomes increasingly wayward in his speech. His actions are sluggish.

‘’Wow’’

‘’Yeah, it’s strong stuff’’

He falls onto the couch and his eyes close.

The house isn’t a haven for honesty and its heart died a long time ago. From experience, I know someone has been hurt and emotionally abused.

‘’Hello’’

I hear cries coming from underground, from a basement. The cries become louder.

‘’Hello’’

I unlock the basement door and go into the darkness. I turn on the light and there lies a human being curled up like a frightened animal.

‘’Come here’’

The girl latches onto me.

I carry her up the stairs and into the kitchen. The backdoor is locked.

We move through to the living room, where the man points a gun at us.

‘’So get me fucked up so you can save her’’

‘’You’re an abuser, I had to get her away’’

‘’You know, you think you’re all clean and perfect’’

‘’ I don’t, just doing the right thing’’

Her body trembles.

‘’Look at her, look what you have done’’

He wants to pull the trigger. He itches for supremacy.

‘’It’s over for you’’

‘’I have the gun, you have nothing’’

‘’Can you hear that?’’

‘’You called them. They do nothing for this town’’

‘’Well today they’re going to do their job’’

The police cars come fast. The shimmering blue lights up the town.

They arrest the man who damaged a life, who captured a heart and battered the confidence out of a girl who just wanted a clean break.

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction and poetry. 

@Writer1990Mark