Desperate revenge of living

Margerette Thompson – too tall for her profound liking, had chocoloate skin and a red beret. Oh what a disaster her face might have been without her disguise of plastic surgery. But in the back of our minds we shared her original face. That contorted green eye twitching when the sun beamed directly for her. Those messy lips splashed in red disasterous lipstick. That bulky nose – too big for her face – too obscure to be any smaller. Margerette had a negative outlook on life so much that every time I asked her polietly to remove her squalor from my doorsteps and find another front yard to take over, she would bash on her pan stiched to her jacket so loudly that the lice in her hair crawled into her ears. I didn’t know anything about Margerette Thompson – only that every time I saw her when I went outside to collect my mail, she would still be there sitting on my steps fiddling with her stolen trinklets attached to her clothes and dirty body and that made me itch with discomfort and riddled hate.

Margerette Thompson had only come inside my house twice. Once – when it was raining. Twice – when there was a street party and she felt too scared to be on display, twisted around the poles of my house like broken christmas decorations.
She had “despised confrontation” and with that she snuggled deep down into her extra large jacket. Where had you come from? Where had you been? I had always asked after recieving gashes of abuse for interrupting her sleep when I stepped over her to go to work. She had answered with her asian accent, “Where have you been?” I would shake my head and warn her that she better get going before I get home.

Margerette Thompson for three months ate nothing. If she did, she would of digested it very quickly because for those three months I did not let her out of my sight. “Eat something” I used to plead, guilt saturating my heart. “Please eat something..” She met my eyes and shook her head, her beret trapped in a knot. “Food want make me full.” God, she was difficult. But, as I had previously known, there was no use in yelling – she didn’t listen. How every day I wished Margerette didn’t exist and would just disappate into thin air. No. no, that would be awful, I would be breathing in her.

Margerette Thompson appared out of no where, told me her name and added “now hide in your house just like all the others – I will stay out here and watch the world.” I felt like the whole world had stopped – jolted and then moved forard again only this time I had a homeless person living on my doorstep – unremovable like a wine stain on a white top that even all the nappisan in the world couldn’t scratch off. Feeling left out knowing there wasn’t much to watch from inside, I crept inside my house as if I was the intruder.

Margerette Thompson decided to get a face lift. Had she stolen my money to cure her ugliness? Desperate not to dare ask, I smiled politely and run inside her words sticking to the neurons in my body, “you can still see the old one, can’t you?”

Margerette Thompson, at the end of the three months warned me of goodbyes. No that it was her words – stolen from my mouth – it sounded cruel and uninviting. “Don’t go, stay in the spare room. You can pick out of all three if you like Margerette.” She had rolled her eyes and said, “Will you shut up, everyone has to leave at some point, I don’t want your ugly little bedrooms, why do you think I stayed outside? I didn’t have to stare at the smae four walls every day for three months.”

Margerette Thompson left me feeling hollow. I would miss her I guessed. I didn’t say goodbye because she didn’t. Still hesitent about letting her go I remebered her last words; “I never cared what clothes you wore.” I followed her out to the gate letting her rip away from my side. She limped trying to juggle her collections and then suddenly fell to the side, htting the curb, letting her blood spill across the tar. How clumsy and messy Margerette Thompson was. I sprinted carelessly, reaching her – holding her. And when I caught her limp chocloate hand; she had already died. This gave a new meaning to death – life.

Desperate revenge of living


Joined November 2008

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