Saturday, January 8, 2011


She witnessed his sweet disposition tail off when he said 'You ruined my life.' My life as in our life? She once has confessed to him 'I feel bliss' meaning 'We feel' – a state they very much were in. 'Heaven is a place the fa├žade lasts and it is the only place' she heard him say lips to her ears and felt on her side something sting. 'I’m stabbed' her senses thought. 'YOU—' Before she said anything further she felt something unimaginably heavy knock against her knee and as she swayed between the weight of gravity and the violation of being felt even a heavier knock on her other knee. 'PRECISION—' was the last word she heard. When she came to she was sat her back against the wall and found his back pressed against her chest. An hour ago at the studio she is editing. 'In your last life you were an Englishman and were poisoned by your Indian wife, the life before you were a yogi and you raped a nun.' She cuts her face to a close-up, a wretched face in disbelief, and inserts split screens. Nine screens for nine lives. The sounds begin:  Couples orgasming fade out to a voice singing the anthem in vibrato fades out to cries and screams. The middle screen blows up and she sees a chap-skinned beggar with outstretched arms who says 'IT’S BLOODY OVER.' The screen fades in to pristine white. It is an indie and she hasn’t yet settled on calling it Perfect Whiteness or Perfect Blackness. She thinks acting is not nerve-racking enough here I’m editing and directing, and that the co-writer is a little much for mainstream. She walks out the door and lights a cigarette. She has kicked the habit and it’s one of those just this once. The smoke fills her lungs and it warms her. Nary a star in the sky, yet it may not rain tonight. She gets back in and the tech wonders where she has been. 'A call for you on your phone' she says. 'The voice said your ex is waiting for you by your apartment.' 'Must be the guard' she says. 'You must meet him then' she hears. 'He may be weepy for all I know and is broken bad.' 'All I sought was a child of my own and not a father to the child' she says. She regrets her choice in men. She leaves the phone behind. She checks on the guard, tips him two thous. Mahatma smiles that smile (that puts violence to shame) on him. 'You go be with your wife now she says. She is delivering tonight I remember. Use the notes on your son and not liquor.' He smiles and takes leave. She then finds her ex with a smile on him too. Now her peripheral vision compromised, she saw what she saw with a tunnel of vision. In the mirror, her eyes met his and all she felt was the heaviness in her head. This close proximity at this juncture wasn’t comforting. She couldn’t tell the mirror was brought to her or she was brought to the mirror. As a certain fact dawned on her, she heard him say 'The cycle must end.' Then, in the mirror, he put a firearm to his mouth, locked his eyes on hers, and with a quiver emptied a chamber. The dead weighed heavy on her and she chose to lay it down. Into the mirror if the dead ever looked it would find itself abandoned. She frisked for his phone and stood (subconsciously seeking pain) bleeding through her ribs on her broken knees. Before a hypovolemic shock overcame her, taciturn and laconic she said 'YOU SISSY BASTARD' and the barrel before the trigger at her finger aimed for the cold, livor mortising heart. As the phone dialed the numbers she fed to it she stood stolid and felt in the pit of her stomach the fetus turn.

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