The day has rolled around that I have to see her again, after our last tragic meeting. It was so moving. She really was courageous through it all, making sure the children wouldn't know she was suffering. It's surprising she hadn't passed out right away after the impact, especially considering how much pain her left leg was in after her recent surgery. It's such a shame really. Just a couple weeks before I had been visiting her, since she lived so near my aunt. And all of a sudden some freak accident while she was fixing her wipers on the side of the interstate brought her here, all alone in this poorly illuminated little corner in this musty old house. The darkness almost hides how worn and moth-eaten the curtains and furniture is. Funny, I don't think I've ever realized until now that carpet can become tear-stained.
No one here knew her like I did. Do. Her own family after reluctantly flowing into this pitiful excuse for a funeral parlor has since congealed in a colorful blob as far away across the room as they could manage. None of them care about even pretending to love her. Just look at them, nibbling merrily on their cake, as if this were a party. Their teeth would fall out from biting the brick-hard cake, if only they knew the softness of her soul. Her sweetness would flavor their lives so much better than the sugary chunks of pumice they so eagerly ingest. Sugar after her acquaintance would burn and sting like a pepper, a vile disgusting pepper pulled out of the digested remains of a puppy's lunch.
This is probably the most colorful wake this town has ever seen, and here I stand looking like the party pooper in black. Of course, they resent the one person that insists on bringing them back to reality, to the corpse an ocean away across the room. To the antique chairs ripping at their pink seems.
Pink. Not a very fitting color for a place of mourning I suppose, but the faded chairs are probably more respectful now than before, back when they were new, the velvet still soft enough to identify itself at such, the bright red fabric and shining wood calling attention away from the fact that every luxury in life ultimately means nothing, that even the most beautiful things have their end. They smelled of a wealthy woman's perfume then, but that has long since been replaced by the scent of dirty diapers, vomit, children's bare feet, among a number of other disturbing things I'd rather not think about. Now the chairs have learned their place, and thereby have taken a sort of authority in this room. There will be no comfort, for comfort in the face of death is a mockery of it, and an invitation for its wrath.
Comfort at its purest belongs only to the dead. To her. She's so beautiful there, the only one deserving of soft fabric caressing her skin and bright wood to frame her perfection. She could be a model. No, she's too beautiful for something so petty. The purple eye shadow of a black eye glittering like the new line from Avon. I can't help but smile seeing nature reflected in her. The purple bulge brings to mind a succulent plum waiting to be devoured. As I poke it the juices squish about, almost singing to me, accommodating my fingernail. So ripe… The whole left side of her face is threatening to burst and shower me with its juice, which, by her current appearance must taste something like melon.
What wouldn't I give for that tingling now of her love raining on me as if she were still here to embrace me. She has always been part of me, another branch on a grape vine. Her fruits were mine, mine hers. What I created was hers, and vice versa. We shared everything we had, and everything we were. I know in death I haven't lost her completely; her spirit is with me always, she abides in my heart, and I've learned much from her. But now it seems she's leaving, and it's much too permanent for me to accept. She can't be taken; she said she was mine forever, and mine she is, forever. She truly will be a part of me now, like never before. Her flesh will be my flesh, her blood my blood. Closer we will be than these fools with their families, engagements, and marriages… But this is beyond duties and vows and carnal lust. This spiritual lust doesn't fade; in our gluttony we devour each other to become one, now, literally.
This love surpasses their pathetic efforts towards definition of what they've never known. A touch to them is desire, but for me it is copulation itself. Not of the body of course, I wouldn't dream of being so crude. A touch is copulation of the soul, beyond lust into the divine. Every subtle brush against her hair by my trembling fingers is piercing. The heavenly golden strands delicate as spiders' webs shoot an ecstasy through me no more than a step away from Nirvana.
She is the fruit that God has forbidden, she holds the knowledge too divinely dangerous for human hearts. Despite their glares and reprimands I must reach out and take this action they would condemn. There is no choice more right, from a moral angle, than to eat of the fruit instead of watching it rot away slowly as they do. Their indifference smells of stagnating bile, piss from their mouths, as they mumble empty prayers to the god they each create in their minds for these rituals. All the while those same mouths mutter blasphemies against nature, commanding she be sacrificed to Gaia through forceful injection.
If the earth could speak she would wail her woe for her wasteful children. She would part her seas and open her soil to release the yet green seed until its maturity, until the healthy flesh and fiber of the fruit around it have been used as intended by the Mother. I have no ties to their idols created for covering hypocrisy, and thereby have no ties to their customs, their logic, and least of all to the rules of vicious uncivilized animals such as they.
So I could, and I will, just reach out and pick her fuzzy peachy cheeks, if they don't fall off first, they're so dangerously ripe. I can tell by how easily my fingers sink into the soft cold of her skin, that action alone pulling her face into a smile that fades as soon as I remove my touch.
Ah, that smile… She was happy in that moment, I'm sure of it! She must miss being loved instead of pitied, or ignored. Those monsters didn't even respect her wish to donate organs. It's not even too late either. What better way to put to good use what you don't need than to share it with those who would take the most pleasure from it? What a waste to dump her into the ground when she would have wanted us feasting! She's even been seasoned and preserved now, and still, they'd commit such a sin.
That butcher in the speeding car actually did her off pretty gracefully, leaving a very even balance between what was mutilated with so much artistry, and what was untouched. Just look upon those fatty legs, the curves of her rolls so inviting to bite on… They gleam so prettily from the stained glass. Yes, like in cathedral windows. Fitting, for the purest woman I've ever known. Red-stained glass, made so by her rich blood, set in her like rubies on a platinum ring. The shards highlight how precious she is, making a geode of her where the stitching down her left leg tore open as soon as the car hit her. How abundant the glass there. It's so beautiful I'd like to dig my fingers into her and rip the rest of her apart and reveal whatever beauty lies within.
I know after all that her beauty can't be only as deep as her peel, lovely as the wrinkly skin is. With just a little coaxing she'll open to me, blooming, lovely as a rose and just as red, blushing on the inside when her cold white cheeks cannot. Those evil creatures across the room would lock her away from my sight, taunting me with the closeness they'd allow me, of having her under my feet. Such disrespect. Do they think I'd hurt her? I could only show her the strength of my love, conquering even death itself. They would thrust this angel in the dirt, as close to hell as their claws can push, though her place is here with me. They would hide the beauty of her ivory skin, yellowing like the sun as days go by, when it drapes like soft velvet curtains over her curvaceous skeleton. How cute her hips look, so tiny from being crushed into powder.
How could they dream of muffling the perfume death has granted her so graciously. In her yet growing golden locks I can smell the flowers they'll plant on her grave. Nectar of blood and formaldehyde with which to make the sweetest honey. And I will make myself into a busy little bee to make that honey that will stick on my lips and in my throat, a perpetual treat. Just from touching her ever so lightly my hand has stolen her sweet sweat scent, of perspiration the living can't work hard enough to reach.
Tonight, I will steal her away from the frightening cold muddy ground, to a candlelight dinner, a picnic beneath the moon.