Monday, 29 October 2012

Happiness Is A Cold One

I love my husband. And my husband loves me. It wasn't always so simple. Back before I opened up his face with a claw hammer.

Him and his friends used to make me undress for them. I'm not sure why, they never seemed to like what they saw, judging by all the names they called me. I guess they liked what they saw well enough to have their way with me though. Now when my husband and I make love, he doesn't say a thing unless spoken to.

"Would you laugh if I told you I love you?" I ask him.

"Only with happiness," I think I hear him reply.

Hold me Clostridia, tiny dancer

So there I was, laying in her bedroom. A beetle or an oversized moth was beating itself repeatedly against the fly screen, rhythmically demanding its way in. If only he knew how much worse it was in here, next to her. My love had been fleeting, momentary, a lapse of better judgement. Yet here I was, wondering whether to sleep or not, as the moon peered through the window and my mind reached out to a bug.

Was it her smell that drove the creature onward in its demented quest for entrance? Or perhaps the flick of light as I dragged on my cigarette? I snuck out of her door and down the hallway, but the vibration of the bug against the screen didn't stop. It reverberated inside my skull as I closed the mortuary door and slunk into the night.