She slid across the linoleum on her knees like a rock star flashing mano cornuto and grabbed his cock -he was instantly erect and wondered how the hell she undid his pants so quickly- which was by now an impromptu microphone into which she sang: ” I m going to fuck youu and blow your mindd.”
She made good on her promise, on both counts. By dawn, as the bedroom curtains curl out of an open window to enthusiatically flap their appreciation of the wind, she touches the glass then looks back at him. Orange light fills the sky behind her and everything is in shadow. “Sorry pard, it was business. It was a helluva ride while it lasted. At least I blew your mind, eh?”
She chuckles at this last bit and blows a kiss at the corpse tidily tucked in bed with a sex-stoned smile languishing on his face. An irregular wreath of crimson crowns his hair on the cheap backboard, a red of the only sort that would have bits of bone and gristle daubed with gray matter. It was her trademark signature; likened to call it crown of roses or some shit like that.
Like a cat hungry for breakfast, she slips out his window and startles some pigeons into a flurry of feathers and angry coos that congeal once more on a ledge further down. There is a whisper of jack boots on architecture and in a hurry the curtains had another reason to wave in the wind. I don’t know whether she fell or not. I don’t think so, but if she did it would bring me no grief.
Unobstructed by her murderous presence, the light slants onto his face which is just about buried deep in plush. Lowing in the fields to be led into the butcher s barn, chewing the cud like a dumb grin, that’s how stupid I am. Damn…was. How naïve! He smiles like there was no tomorrow, and the final softness of dawn inflames his sensitive features with golden light. The crown of roses gleams wetly and something falls to the ground with an equally wet smack. Ahh, I reckon it was a right apt title.
Grey and deflated despite the hot sun pushing its radiance into the room, I sit there and ponder my queer circumstances. The paraphernalia of a dead man litters the room. Remnants of a past, meaningless to any but the recipient of these memories for whom intrinistic worlds would bloom: a framed photograph, a weathered baseball glove, a litter of condoms, some family pictures. I wonder if they will find him before the rats and cockroaches help themselves.
Can ectoplasm shed tears?