Purging the sins
I hold back her fringe and slice right down the centre of her forehead. Skin
parts like Moses’ sea. I want to see what goes on in her head – I have always
wondered. Presented with bone, the hacksaw comes out. After many a broken
blade I give up, choosing the electric tile cutter instead. It slices her face clean
in half, exposing the grey matter and her secrets.
In the swirling patterns I see when you had betrayed me. The times when you
had lied, your bad thoughts. I can see it all, every last sin. Each avenue of
brain enlightens me further until there is no more left to find out.
I had been right all along. You were a harlot, a charlatan. I knew it all now.
Just like your mother!
“Damn you, concubine! I shall feast on this knowledge and remedy the
wrongs. I will eat every last ounce of your meat, gorge on your flesh until my
stomach is a distended balloon!”
I roar with laughter, and begin the dismantling. I would make you mine once
more. You will belong to me again.
I have a blender. Pop in the kidneys, lungs, heart; the blood, caught in a cup
while squeezing the severed arms from wrists to biceps. Switch it on, watch as
the mass swirls round. Deep red vortex. Lifting the lid I check the consistency.
Too thick, almost dough like. Splosh in half a bottle of red wine, whiz away.
Pour into a crystal goblet, a Bloody Mary. Sipping, tasting, delicious. My
thirst beckons for a faster swallow, gulps, lumps.
“Even devouring your mishaps is not smooth. Damn you, concubine! I shall
purge you from my body and cleanse you, it is the only way.”
I look down at the scattered pieces. A foot, heroin holes between the toes,
stands by itself, lonely on the carpet. I place its mate adjacent. Together once
“You won’t be walking the pavements again, or parting to receive your
guests. Closed, that’s what you are, what you should have been. God will
only allow you into his Kingdom once you have passed through me. We’ll
wait. Yes. It’s only a matter of time.”
Collecting the remnants, I place them in a black bin liner. Hum as I fill the
carpet cleaner with hot, soapy water; sing as I purge the carpet of your vile
doings. Hoist the sack over my shoulder, Father Christmas, on his way to
delivering your sorry pieces to she who gave you life. What sorrow she will
feel, not knowing you as I do. The grief she’ll experience, her good girl gone
I’ve watched you from my window, and you didn’t even know I live here.
Parading your slim legs, midriff, cleavage for all to see. Flaunted the vessel
that housed your soul, abused the gift God bestowed upon you. My anger
mounted, I was intrigued to see how your mind worked, wanted to read your
brain, see if everything I had imagined about you was true. That your mother,
whore that she is, tainted you to spite me.
And it was true.
The pavements that you yourself have pounded are unyielding beneath my
boots, this sack heavy with you inside. With your guidance, your flesh shake
sitting in my guts, showing me the way, I arrive at your home; drop the sack
at the bottom of the driveway as I stroll past.
My stomach is churning, your sins playing up. No matter, I shall indeed
suffer so that you can make it through the gates, into the arms of an ever-
loving Jesus. Tell him of your woes and repent, pray that he will embrace
your sorry soul, for if he doesn’t, it’s downstairs for you my dear, to the hot
confines with Satan. Your mother belongs there.
I always said I would do anything for you, set you on the right path, but you
didn’t listen. Never did, always knew best. A tough exterior, rude mouth,
tongue so spiteful. Watching you from afar wasn’t easy – ousted from your
life as I was. But you realised, accepted I was right, held my hand and came
home with me. Where you should have been all along.
Home to Daddy.
Yet your muscles flexed while we talked, your body screaming to be fixed
and I knew. Knew it was useless, that only God could help you now. With His
blessing I have sent you to Him.
Unlike me, He won't be denied.
Thirty-two-year old mother of five. Reads, writes, loves life! Has written
over 100 short stories of every genre and four novels.
© 2005 Underground Voices