Ghosts (Preview)

I don't remember when we stopped being human. I'm sure if I could put it as a date on a calendar, I could have some kind of closure.

There are always dishes to be done, and dusting. I just don't want to touch any of it anymore. The dishes are rotting in the sink and the house is blanketed in centuries of dust. I feel like you and I are day vampires now, rising from coffins in the morning to face the latest day just like the thousands before it. You go out to the fields and I stay in here and I wash dishes, bleeding out from the boredom.

I just want to take the car and leave. Why don't you ask me to dance anymore? Why don't we fuck anymore? Am I that awful?

God, I hate these dishes splashing around in the water with my angry fingers scratching the mashed potatoes off of them. I need to remember to soak the dishes or wash them as they get used, because I hate washing them so much right now.

Maybe I'm not the person I was when we met in the drug store downtown, or when we came out here to get away.

We came here to get away after all, I tell myself when I do the dishes, and it makes me scratch them harder until I've abandoned the scrubber and I'm just using my fingernails.

Looking down at the red water, I pull my hand up and see the blood staining my fingernails. We came here to get away, and all I want to do is go home.

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Thanks for reading.

Much respect,
Roman Theodore Brandt