Aujourd'hui, j'ai squatté "TV Town", un événement sur le Coffeehouse, animé par Arch Es qui nous propose durant 2 heures des prompts autour d'une série TV. Aujourd'hui, c'était Sherlock. Je n'ai pas pu écrire longtemps, mais j'ai fait un texte regroupant 3 des prompts (en gras ci-dessous). Il est en anglais et TW mention de meurtre et sang. 737 mots
He couldn’t
stand staring at her any much longer. She looked like a ghost version of
herself, sad and grey, her long greasy hair falling like curtains in front of
her face. She spent most of her days sitting in her pyjamas by the window,
silently watching the leaves fall from the trees, the weather turning as sad
and grey as her.
He needed
to do something, and to do it quick. He had tried forcing her out of the house,
but she had stayed limp, heavy as a potato sack into his arms. He had
contemplated yelling, begging, even leaving, but in the end, he had been unable
to turn his back on her. He loved her, no matter what.
He was
currently standing behind her, watching her watching the leaves, and a sudden
ray of light shining on a red leave slowly dropping to the ground gave him the
perfect idea.
“A nice
murder. That’ll cheer you up.”
She turned
so quickly to face him she might have given herself whiplash, and he frowned
when she winced in pain.
“Oh, sorry
my love. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
She gave
him a quiet smile, massaging her neck before looking deep into his eyes.
“Do you
mean it?”
He weighed
on his options for a while. He couldn’t pretend he was liking the idea, but if
it was what was necessary to put a smile on her face, he was willing to go down
that road.
“Will it
make you happy?”, he asked.
She clapped
her hands, a big smile blossoming on her face. Already, her cheeks were filling
with colours, she was sitting straighter, as if the mention of death had
breathed life into her.
“Nothing
would make me happier”, she said, enthusiastic. “It’s been so long since…”
He tuned
out the rest of the sentence. He loved who she was but hated what she was. He
was getting migraines on a regular basis trying to wrap his head around that
fact, and despite really trying to be supportive, he was getting sick to his
stomach thinking about what she had made him do in the past.
“I need
to go to my mind palace”, he muttered, slowly backing out of the room. She was already deep inside
her own thoughts, excited about her next victim, and she paid him no attention.
He ran
through the manor to his office, closing the door behind him, and fell to his
knees, struggling to breathe. “One last time, he promised to himself. One last
time, and then I’ll have to do something about it.”
He
knee-walked to the old leather couch standing in the corner and forced himself
to climb on it and lie down. Here, in the middle of his most precious
possessions, he finally felt able to breathe and to think. Something had to be
done.
When he
exited the room later that night, she was nowhere in sight. Hopefully, she was
already outside, on the hunt, and he wouldn’t have to take part in the
slaughter. He hated it: the slimy sensation, the warmth of the blood, the coppery
smell of it. He would scrub and scrub his hands at times trying to get rid of
the red darkening behind his nails, around his fingertips, and all the things
he then had to burn to make it all disappear. Yet, when he closed his eyes at
night, all he could see was red, red, red, unless she was pressing her warm,
alive body against his and he could lose himself in the heat.
He
peacefully strolled around the mansion, enjoying the silence, putting his mind
at ease. Maybe this time would be the last time. Maybe she would finally feel
whole, and all of this would stop, and they would be happy together for the
rest of their lives.
He entered
the kitchen, in dire need of a cup of tea, and spotted her sitting at the
table, a smile on her face. He felt a pang of heartbreak, but pushed through
it, kissing her hair on his way to the counter.
He put the
kettle on the burner, grabbing two cups and setting them on the table.
“I think I
could go for a snack”, he said, rubbing is stomach. “Do you want something, my dear?”
And then
almost immediately: “There's a severed head in the fridge”
“Just
tea for me, please.”
