The Withering Sneers

The usual stream of water was non existent when Carrie turned open the faucet. It was a series of weak droplets, the sound it made when it hit the tile floor bounced against the walls, the waves reverberated - almost harmonic. The alley was dark (or sullen), those lights that used to brighten the wall and made the texture of imperfect finishing embossed were now a copy of colorful flickering light at Joe's. She has never been to any place quieter than this, that the quietest place that she had been to was her room, during the absence of Kayla. But at least, the range of quietness was bearable - with screeching scream from the worn out bushings of Henry's aging wheel (his white '55 Thunderbird was a steal!) or from the lawnmower across the streets.

Carrie watched the water now slowly crawled to the ditch, like a centipede that elongated on the forest's floor. It moved so slowly down the slope, looking for a place to settle down. There was still no sound, except the plops from the droplets of leaking faucet. It wasn't the sound Carrie was looking for, she needed something else, some sounds that were more assuring. Like the sound of distant steps, or the hums from the engine at the nearest road, or the shout of Dean calling for her name. At times like this that Carrie suddenly missed all the screams and yells and fights she had with him. It all seemed more prevalent right now that she missed him more than she could tell she would. It all seemed right now that the fights she had with him were menial, stupid and most importantly, childish. When everything could be settled and calmed down with talks like two adults should talk, they instead resort to scream and yell. And now when she's alone, she realized how much times had been wasted when those times could be spent on the bed, cuddling, exchanging sweet talks, nibble his ears, stoke his chest hair and make the world theirs'.



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