Wednesday, November 30, 2011


40. 40 minutes, hours, or days?  a number can stand for so many things. what's that one mean to you? to me it means a little bit of sobriety in a sense. given up something I never thought I'd go without for this long and I'm planning on continuing without it. Ever have a habit that you finally had the nerve to kick? Then again to each their own. "Different strokes for different folks" - Sly and the family stone. Well have you ever had dinner with a less than delightful person? how long would you stay? 40 minutes perhaps? What if it was a madman who wants to be you instead of date you? Interesting thought I once had so I wrote a little story about it. Here's a excerpt for you to taste. enjoy. kisses. m.

Beneath the calm lies the darkness.

Beneath the calm lies the darkness. I didn’t want him dead exactly, but a little damage wasn’t about to satisfy me either. Call it carnage or mayhem, but destruction was it, simply put. Tell me six hours ago, that I’d be gutting a man and my response would have been hysterical laughter in your face. And yet here I am sorting through the intestines and other such things that make up the guts of a human being. My hands stained crimson and, I’m not exactly sure what color goes with this. Actually let’s take it back a few hours…

It was a charming candlelight dinner for two. Such an unexpected surprise! Jewelry - a ring. “Darling! You shouldn’t have.” 

REALLY! Since that’s exactly where the charming scenario ends.

As if the smell of flesh wasn’t enough, I’m combing through the organs and fishing around for the smallest instance of metal and wondering if this mess will come out of my dress. Furthermore, “Whatever will become of these heels?”

Sometime after the second course he asks for my measurements. Coy and being silly as always I blush and mention that “you already know my size.” Again the issue is pressed with more diligence and the words are getting a little stressed. Puzzled, I reply curtly. In my attempt to avoid a fight I quickly change the subject to the news. His face freezes and eyes drift off. Silence.

Damn him for this!
 Swallowing the key. Slice, snip, tear. Surprisingly his flesh still moves easily as my tiny fingers manipulate the skin around the opening and find the way upward feeling for an opening to his esophagus. There’s just so much blood.

I want to wear your face like a mask!” The words stumble out of his mouth upon his intoxicated breath across the table reaching toward me. “And I’m going to make clothing out of your flesh.” Assuming that he’s being funny, I stop eating and let out a brief giggle followed by a smile. He’s not smiling as he slides out of the chair and begins to walk towards me. When he reaches down for my hand, I hold his gaze. I see this darkness that hadn’t been there before. I flinch and pull my hand back. “Tsk-tsk my dear,” he steps back, “I’d hoped you wouldn’t struggle. I hadn’t planned on damaged goods.” He walks back to the far side of the table and pivots to face me. Grabbing his wine glass, he smiles, raising the other hand to reveal a key in his palm. With that gesture to me, he swallows the key. “Now we have plenty of time to take care of this problem.” Locked in with a maniac.

Flimsy and quite fragile are the inner workings of a human. I’ve been poking around in the insides of this overdone fiend for about two hours and having no luck in locating the key. Me, performing this backwards autopsy upon the dining room table dressed with what’s left of the best linens; My Marc Jacobs dress substituting for scrubs. Steak knife is my scalpel, dish towels for sponges, and bourbon to sterilize? Actually the bourbon is an attempt to chase away my squeamish nerves. Model turned mortician in a matter of hours.

Armed with my steak knife, I slide out of my chair and step away from the table. It’s a matter of time before he pounces and I need a plan… It hits me! I have the upper hand here. He doesn’t want my flesh marked or scarred. Somehow he needs to subdue me without bruising. I look around for the poison or other such means. Nothing. What was his agenda? 

We are slowly circling the dining room table. Chair by chair, moving in closer as I stare at him gripping my steak knife with every ounce of determined strength I have. I’m petite and no match for this 6 ft. maniac. I’ve come around to his original seat. Stopping and resting my hand on the table, I pause for a moment. Look him in the eye, and without further hesitations I take the steak knife and slice part of my face open. It’s not deep, but I’m right in my assumption and he overreacts. 

“NO!” He screeches, drops his arms and lunges across the table towards me, taking with him the entire dinner. China comes crashing down, spilling wine and food everywhere in this foolish move. He lands within my reach and grabs at my free hand. I pull to break free, but his grip becomes intense and suddenly he’s pulling ferociously. Not out of his maniacal urgency, out of sheer panic. He’s on fire! Somehow the candle ignited the wine when it spilled and he’s fireball of burning flesh before my eyes. Keeping a level head, I run for the extinguisher. He’s out, in more ways than one. I cut his throat out anyhow. Well there really was no sense in us both dying.

 I’ve found it. In the upper regions of his digestive tract. Small, metallic, sharp. Bloody fantastic treasure. Eyes open. DAMN! He’s not dead. It’s time to go now. I’ve taken his voice instead of his life. Goodnight my love. He knows what I’ve done. Carved a cavernous hole into his torso. Took a piece of his neck. He’s powerless. I smile, raise a glass of wine and a lit candle in one hand and wave the key in front of him with the other. There’s panic in his eyes and darkness in mine. I spill the wine and drop the candle. Grab my Stoll. Lock the door behind me as I leave. 

Burn baby burn!

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