The Whore, the Sloth, and the Knife

Hey mother, what do you hide? I notice the melancholy expression that sits on your face, but can't help to see that a feverish intoxication is concealed inside.

It's Tuesday again, and I begin to identify the clues. For one you appear more attentive, nearly hypnotized. Eyes concentrate on your reflection eagerly, its hands excessively brushing the hair in a rhythmical pattern, not too mention all the make-up it applies.

The exotic, red gown worn on my parent's anniversary usually remains nestled against the back of the wall. Yet recently I found it to reside on a hanger a few steps closer, but the anniversary wasn't expected until Fall.

Eventually she would say, "I am going for a walk," eyes intrigued for a much more lustful purpose. Making haste towards the door, all we would notice was the black portmanteau, and her dark hair now shining a dirty blonde. Later I would sneak back to her closet and as I anticipated, the gown was now gone.

Hey father, why do you drink? His eyes glossy, watch as mother casually closes the door. He quietly stares where she exited and often I'd witness a sorrowful tear sneak from his eye as he whispers the word "sorry," and thus the drinks began to pour. Such a pathetic sloth, no intention of mending what he broke. Only to sing pitiful cries late in the night as he lies there alone.

I was bound to discover these secrets they so carefully hide. I bear both of their company now, surprised and confined, tape shielding the cries that long to escape their mouths, and hands unmistakably tied.

The knife in my hand would do the interrogation. So many questions I had and although simple to explain, there would be no answers, and no need for false information. I wanted to express my emotions, and so violently they came.

Mother was first. It was simple but romantic in her beautiful red dress, and soon all that remained was the blood that I shed. Doing father was more challenging than I had once imagined. Reflections appear in tears those sorrowful eyes once shed, especially on the eve mother had fled. In disgust I imitated the up and down rhythmical pattern mother had once possessed, leaving nothing to remain but the knife and my carelessness.