Haunted Melody

He sits on the toilet and begs her not to leave.

“Don’t go! Please…” Danny’s voice trails off as he leans forward, jeans pooling around his ankles, skinny legs exposed. His face is flushed and damp, his eyes are pleading, but he is harmless and vulnerable in this position. She can walk out the door.

Hillary doesn’t know when walking out the door became so easy for her, when she became able to forget his pathetic looks, his sorrowful moans, his child-like whining. Somewhere along the way, she forgot why she used to stay and argue until late into the night, early into the morning, hearing the birds chirp at dawn that always made her cry. They never resolved their battles, only fell onto the soft bed out of exhaustion when hysteria failed.

Hillary finally understands how love slips into hate, how hate mimics love, how anything in between only glues a couple together. She remembers to close the porch door behind her. The porch that they painted in magenta and purple, with sheer curtains piped in velvet surrounding chenille armchairs. This was their final project, their desperate attempt to create and distract themselves from the inevitable end. She wore a vintage slip and stood on a step ladder, scraping blue painting tape from the French window panes. It was campaign season, and Mayor R.T. Rybak came to drop off some flyers and a glossy yard sign. He saw Hillary high on the ladder, paint dripping down her arms, splattering dots of magenta on the edge of her slip. He commented nervously on the color. She told him it was called Haunted Melody.

Danny soon abandoned the project for prescription pill bottles. He left her on the porch with all the windows to edge, a sorry plastic tape deck, and new paint brushes. She swears her heart is trapped on the porch, smothered in the paint that violently adhered to the stucco walls, the walls she painted over and over again until the color became thick and dark enough, leaving no traces of the brillant white the previous owners had painted. The white that grew shadowy and nicotine stained under the strain of their care. It was an attempt to hide their history; A history that still echoes in the room.