#* open .

❝ Y’ were drivin’ us ‘part; But y’ only laughed at me - It's over, th’ tables turned- An’ all a’ the bridges burned- ❞ 

He sings along to the record, voice off tune, comforted by the singer’s voice as he takes a needle to the soft, tender flesh peeled from tonight’s dinner. Thick, normally clumsy hands are dead still as focus is centered on making the stitches just right. He has the head where the skin was taken beside him, already having the brain taken out and stored by the Cook. 

He hears thuds outside, telling him to stop singing that ‘stupid shit’, while his mama slept. He’s too loud, too gruff, too soft, too quiet- he’s just too much to his family, all except mama and Nubs, maybe Bobby too, but he ain’t been around for a long damn time. Bubba, Jed, whatever you called him, he was just both too much and not enough for his family. He was his mama’s baby though, that was always true.  He lets his voice fade off, still listening to the music until the record had finally stopped. He can’t work without noise- but it HAD to be noise he could control. 

         —————  ₍ 🛎️ ₎      wads  upon  wads  of  paper  and  tobacco  dot  the  floor  like  a  minefield  ,  still  lightly  smoldering  even  as  another  fresh  stick  is  pulled  from  the  package  and  lit  .  he’s  further  dirtying  the  floor  like  this  ,  but  a  knobbled  and  gauche  elbow     (     his  own    )     had  long  since  sent  the  ashtray  tumbling  over  the  iron  railing  of  the  bridge  ,  into  the  maw’s  bottomless  stomach  below  ,  and  it  wasn’t  like  there  was  anyone  to  replace  it  .  She  does  not  have  to  spare  so  much  as  a  glance  to  bodily  vices  of  staff  ,  and  the  one  employee  who  openly  shared  such  a  habit  never  stepped  forward  .  truthfully  ,  the  bellman  hadn’t  seen  the  brother  chef  ———  the  eldest  by  only  a  moment  ———  in  months  ,  possibly  years  even   ;   not  counting  the  few  notes  left  upfront  in  his  grubby  and  smeared  handwriting  ,  most  likely  complaining  about  rats     (     that’s  the  impossible  man’s  job  ,  not  his  .     )     but  he  still  thinks  he  can  remember  the  cook’s  face  well  ,  or  rather  the  fleshy  mask’s  .  they  had  shared  this  spot  once  ,  in  a  cloud  of  fumes  ,  but  not  anymore  .  not  anymore .

    so  the  gangly  figure  in  his  too  -  small  chair  sits  alone  on  the  wide  junction  between  two  rooms  now  ,  in  his  own  ,  solitaire  cloud  of  acrid  smoke  and  surely  shriveling  whatever’s  left  of  his  lungs  by  now   .   .   .   or  ,  so  he  thought  .

❛  women  of  this  world  been  beaten  down  far  more  than  any  man  i’ve  met.   we  all  got  our  own  way  of  strugglin’     𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧  ----   men,   we  deserve  it.   they,      𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲  𝐝𝐨  𝐧𝐨𝐭. ❜