Three 2

The highly anticipated sequel to a poem-ish thing.

Three

“I’ll be there in a while.” He said, as she stood up to go to bed. She bent to kiss his cheek, then started heading for the stairs.

He turned to watch her walk away and smiled in his contented way. His luck had turned dramatically the day she’d found him there.

“Don’t be too long, my One.”

“I won’t.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. The corner of his lip flickered in protest of the word.

He stood, walked through the kitchen door. Her footsteps reached the second floor. He’d pour a drink, suppress the thoughts she’d accidentally stirred.

He fast unscrewed the bottle’s cap, then poured a glass and threw it back, when from behind he thought he heard a tap on window glass.

Instinctively his movement ceased, imagining some hidden beast with matted fur and many jagged teeth come stalking past.

But then he laughed. “You silly sod.” He thought. “Sounds like your nerves are shot. The tapping was imagined, not some big, bloodthirsty thing!”

He slowly turned with glass in hand, pouring a second as he panned. Calming his fraying nerves demanded just another drink.

But as he pivoted around, he heard a louder tapping sound. His tumbler fell and hit the ground as he came into view.

Through the window, clear as day, the man he’d hoped had gone away. The man whose twisted game he’d played. “Oh hello, One.” Said Two.

“Fuck off, Steven.” One scathed back, swooping towards the broken glass and picking up the- “I fucking knew this would happen. I knew you’d come back. As soon as this tosser started making everything I say rhyme again, I thought ‘Oh well Steven must be just around the pissing corner then.’ Fuck off, I mean it. I’m not interested. I’ve moved on, mate. I’m married now and I’ve got a good job with responsibilities and shit. I don’t need you and your rhyming bollocks showing up and shitting all over everything.”

Two laughed and smirked, stepped closer still to One’s old kitchen windowsill. “You’ve not moved on at all” his chilling visage whispered back.

“Chilling visage? Fuck off! And by the way, I didn’t ‘swoop’. I forgot to say before but I definitely didn’t ‘swoop’ down to the broken glass. It’s just that this dickhead surprised me, I dropped the tumbler and now there’s broken glass and fucking whiskey all over the shop. I’m trying to clean this shit up. There was no sw- Nobody ‘swooped’, alright? In fact I don’t think I’ve ever ‘swooped’ in my life. And this is a new build, so the ‘old windowsill’ is 5 years old, max. Do your research at least, for fucks sake.” He paused. “Go on, fit all that into a verse.” He slammed, as he scratched his arse and sniffed his hand. The- “Oh, that’s mature! That’s bloody mature isn’t it! Fucking hell, you’re as bad as him. I’m serious, fuck off, the pair of you. I’m going to bed, I’ve got work in the morning.”

Two smiled. “You’d go and leave this mess for Mrs One on morning next-”

“Morning next isn’t a thing.”

“It is. Uh… For Mrs One on morning next to scrape and scratch her feet on as she rests them on the floor?”

“I’ll leave her a note or a text to wake up to and explain what’s happened and tell her to be careful in the kitchen. It’s such a simple solution. Don’t try to make a big ‘Ooooh would you dare’ thing of it for your poem. She’ll understand. She knows all about you, you dick.”

“Oh does she now?” The triumph gleamed upon Two’s face that shone and beamed. “You told her all about me? Seems you’ve moved on very well.”

“Yeah, I have. You fucking traumatised me, you wanker, but we worked through my issues together. Because that’s what people do. They don’t spend their lives playing shitty games with shitty cups and shitty little arse holes like you. So you read into it all you like mate, but if you’re not off my property in 30 seconds I’m ringing the police.”

Two’s hopeful face turned all to white as One turned off the kitchen light, then out the kitchen, out of sight, he left Two on his own.

With heavy sighs he turned and trudged- “And you as well. Fuck off with him.”

Me?

“Fuck off.”

I’ve got to end the-

“Fuck off. Here you go… BAM. That’s it. Poem over.”

More short stories and poems

Author: wtfranjo

My name is Franjo. And I will be a Football Manager.

2 thoughts on “Three 2”

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