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M.E. ELLIS
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 more. “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 bad. 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. |
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© 2005 Underground Voices |
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