I wonder if writing is what makes me have these thoughts or behave like this, she continues thinking; for, thoughts, would only make sense inside her mind: once she uttered any random word belonging to one of those thoughts, they would become instant lies.
She would think flowers are so smooth and soft, like butterflies diving through a water-less sea and, had she uttered butterflies there would, suddenly, be no butterflies nor flowers around and nobody would even understand what she meant. As if people around her were thinking of flour instad of flower or butter that flies instead of butterflies and, thus, her words would become meaningless, senseless, utterless.
One day, she thought of her pet snake, Bumblebee: she was yellow with black stripes like a bee, Sarah loved the way bumble sounded, it had a taste of strawberries and, to her, it made sense a snake smelling (or tasting, the difference in meanings she could not grasp) and looking, at the same time, like a wide-eyed bee. Beauty full she would think, nothing's beauty fuller than Bumblebee and bees and carrots and strawberries and stripes! I love stripes! They're ripe enough to be eaten: the stripes, not the strawberries...
Her thoughts fought thoughtful fights in her mind. They were like male gazelles fighting for the love of the most suitable female to mate. Red, lemon, pineapple and cinnamon smoothie was what came to mind when thinking of gazelles mating.
Sarah's husband, a renowned psychiatrist, was intrigued about getting to know her deepest thoughts. You're a true mystery, Sarah... he would say, in a loving voice, the one she fell in love with. She would feel delighted, take it as a compliment and continue smelling words and seeing colours that nobody ever saw. Nobody had a clue about her way of thinking or understanding things, people only took her as too immature for her age or lacking the capacity to express her thoughts in a normal way.
That day, the fickle-fingered day, she kissed her husband after dining and, with a shy smile, said: "do you also taste Bumblebee like a strawberry?" She had never uttered such long sentence, it made her thoughts quiver as if going through a massive earthquake. He stared at her. A protruding grin. His crooked teeth sparkling in amusement. His eyes hinted a Black Mamba coiling, attentive.
"No, my love, have you actually bit or licked Bumblebee?" he said.
"No, I..." she answered.
"Come, let's get Bumblebee and let's have you tell me what you see in her eyes" the grin, the eyes, the teeth shining oh-so-brightly as if a Black Mamba just about to strike.
Silence. Her brain was paralysed. Had someone seen a brain scan at that exact moment, they would've diagnosed her as a carrot or, even better: as a leek, for her hair was dark-green, long and, that day, she was wearing a creamy dress —it wasn't white nor beige, something quite unnoticeable, like tasting water in a fruit salad.
Sarah's legs weren't responding. Something made her feel alert. She was smart, she wouldn't let anyone know her true intentions. Her husband, though he had his own suspicions about the way her brain worked, he was always cautious before striking. This time was different: Sarah smelled burnt roses in the small house of theirs, even though there were no flowers nor anything being burnt.
Danger, Sarah! You're in danger, my love whispered an indistinguishable voice inside her mind. She obeyed whatever she heard. NOW! NOW! Grab the chandelier by your side. FAST. He's petting Bumblebee, strike fast before he does!
With a fast, imperceptible movement, she grabbed the pure-gold chandelier by her side. He was looking the other way and noticed nothing. Hit him! NOW! NOW, sugar tits! She loathed being called sugar tits, she couldn't stand it, unsolved childhood traumas birthed through her at the thought of it. She hit him non-stop. Her dress, now bright red, smelled of red roses. They weren't burning. She saw the Black Mamba, inside his eyes, die. She saw the crooked teeth straighten and become darker as blood oozed through them. He was dead.
Silence. Again. An overwhelming feeling of confusion. Darkness.
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