Powder Burn Flash # 158 - Jason Michel
the death of me
By Jason Michel
You will be the death of me.
I grip the knife tighter. It lies against my leg. My knuckles whiten under the pressure. You are there. Unawares.
I am here. I move in. From around a corner. Suddenly we are face to face. Under a streetlight. You freeze. Bringing your hands up. Your facial muscles tighten. An instinctive reaction. A sudden flash of recognition. Softening.
I grab your collar. Pulling you towards me. You push against my face. I bring the knife up. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Like that.
It is over in an instant. You are still pushing as you weaken. Your face is pulled as if you are screaming but you make no sound other than a wheeze. I smell whisky on your breath. Your clothes. I begin to feel your warm blood spill out over my right hand. Turning my hand red. Like that song. The one you like. I leave the knife in there. Stuck under your ribs. A memento.
I let go and you fall to the ground. I stamp on your head for no good reason. I wanted to do it. It bubbled up inside of me. The laughter of a child. A twitch. That sudden fear of pissing the bed. That is all. I could not help myself. In this world where science has stripped any thought of freewill from us. Where our unconscious drives control our egos like puppets. I stamp on your head. I enjoy it. Like that.
I turn away and consider leaving. Then I come back and spit over your dying body. Not on you. Over you. I do not hate you. Again I do not know why. It was all in the moment. It just seemed the right thing to do. I leave my DNA everywhere for them to find it. I care not a jot.
I do not hate you. You know that.
I turn and begin to run down the street. I jump over a few fences. Run through a couple of gardens. Get myself a couple of streets away. Might as well give them a run for their money. The odd light is on in the odd house. The jobless or night shift worker. No one sees me. No one looks out into the night. People just do not. Not unless they hear a sound. They just watch late night TV. Surf the net for porn. Read books written by dead folk.
In the near distance I hear police sirens. A taxi driver must have found him. That will shake the old neighbourhood up a bit. Set tongues wagging. Fingers pointing. A real live murder under our very noses. The streets are just not safe anymore. The police do nothing. We will all be murdered in our beds.
You will be the death of me.
I remember when you said that.
Well, you were right. Eh.
They will catch up with me soon enough. Two or three days. I will be waiting for them to call. Hopefully I will be in the bath. Surrounded by candlelight, soft shadows and sweet smelling bath salts. Bubble bath.
They will have found the cow’s heart I sent you by then. That cute heart shaped box. I hope they appreciate the nails hammered through it. That was a special touch. It is exactly what you did. What you did to me.
They will burst in while I am bathing. They will see my perfect legs. Smooth. Golden. Slim. They will be confused. Weak. They will all want me. They will all want to be looking as I stand up. Dripping wet. As I step into my silk robe. They will think you insane for leaving me. They will make jokes and nudge each other. Weak. Men. Easy to twist around. They cannot help themselves. All except you. You left.
I do not hate you.
BIO: Jason Michel has been turned on, tripped up and stumbled over all around the world on an eleven year (so far) self imposed exile. He now lives in
at lulu.com and has had work published in various print and online magazines. His work can be seen at http://beatendog.blogspot.com/