Final Showing

A man so obsessed with the shade of death is the one who causes it.

I don’t mean to be so grim. But there’s so much beauty in decay, in loss, in darkness, in death. How can anyone not notice?

***

I, Edgar Rousel, sit at the edge of my seat.

The woman in her ring announces the stars around her with a vitality the likes of which I’ve never seen.

(Though I admit I’ve never looked for such)

We are the black sea around the circle of fluorescent lighting, the loud waves that capture her brilliance. A woman’s flesh cannot look so pristine in azure shades, but, alas, hers is tantalizing. Curls of flame lick teal shoulders as she turns to her audience (How I wish it was only me).

“Ladies and gentlemen!” her vermillion lips sing, “however may I, Lotte Krause, thank you for visiting us on such a fine evening!”

I’m sure my breath, heaved out from the deepest part of my chest, reaches her. A name painted of such passion, as though it was crafted for her and her alone. (I must have it)

She swings from the ropes, dances on the water, and handles beasts so naturally I don’t realize this is an act. I tell her so in my most earnest voice, nearly cracking her white fingers (like bone). They turn pink, alive, as she laughs grandly.

I wish to hear that voice at its sharpest, and for it to disappear into the air.

I use mine to whisper all I think of her, from her coloring to her scent to her shape to her sound, to capture her.

She is mine.

Flesh so white turns to pink turns to red turns to gray turns to white again and then back to pink like the magic she performed so wonderfully just earlier.

It pains me to see her performances dwindle away like this but if anyone were to take this away from her, I am so glad it is me.

Her curls, aflame as they seem, droop under the weight of her rouge. She does not notice, the poor dear. Oh, Lotte, you are stunning but even more so when colored in roses. I like your gasps, erotic and fleeting.

Did you not want this? Everyone must, at some point. Even if you do not, you would have had to come to the conclusion that this would happen. Perhaps soon, perhaps not.

Death is such a pretty shade on you, Lotte dear.

Reviews

[Nina St. Moritz]

Wow. This is stunning. I am breathless with the total mix of depth and shallowness in Edgar Rousel. I see things like Edgar does, though to a much less drastic degree. I too believe there is such a hidden and underestimated beauty in dark things. I like how you use tons of imagery to bring us down to Edgar's level, and really hit us with the depth of his convictions for murder. Five stars, verily.

Sharp quills,
M. P. Owl