She had known bitter daysA Poem by TerpsichoreSin is, or sin isn't, she thinks, icy with detachment as she squeezes the trigger. Payback for all the damaged years. The afternoon is bright, the room is silent. Mirrors magnify and thoughts assemble, as cloistered in serene order, she drifts away on a draught of simple murder. First shot, in the groin. He squeals like a pig, teeth bared, forehead veined as fluid runs down his leg and clouds soak up the sun in the onset of dusk. She laughs thinly, takes aim again at his thumping heart. She is slightly off target and the slug smashes his shoulder blade, he squirms on the oriental rug, howling through bullet splintered bone as she prays for pain. He can't speak now, she knows this slow dance is his last, that they are sharing final seconds. This is their eucharist and she is giving him the gift of white light and eternal damnation. She prods at his dying face with the toe of her suede high heel, casually lights a cigarette. One more shot for the road... Aims at his forehead, laughs and this time doesn't miss. Calmly, she changes clothes, packs what she needs, then telephones for a cab. Two hours later at the airport she reflects happily on the deed, dressed in a gaucho jacket and a wide-brimmed, black Madrid hat. Bound for New Orleans, and no way back. In the Mardis Gras hotel room she examines herself. Runs slender fingers over the purple scars that now defile her empty chest. She remembers the words of rejection and the lack of needful sympathy. The cruel taunts of lost womanhood and the solo pain of chemotherapy whilst he sought comfort elsewhere. She is not in remission. The poisonous flower still blooms, opening insidiously, inside her. Her days are numbered, cheap as yesterdays cloakroom tickets; but it is carnival time and she has come here to die in the party atmosphere. First though she must sleep, garner what little strength remains. She wakes to the sound of flutes and drums drifting on the willowy breeze. Tonight she will dance again until her feet bleed from the rough streets. She will drink dark rum passed from anonymous revellers, flirt a little, perhaps steal one last kiss as the fiery mahogany spirit warms her cancerous tumours. At dusk the sky fills with violet ash from the crackling carnival bonfires, she goes deep into the crowd, cherishing every passing moment amongst the parrot feathers and tinfoil, the glinting diamantes and white silky blaze as she wanders slowly back to her hotel. From her chair on the balcony she can smell honeysuckle and French roses. Can hear a choir, emotive and distant. She leans back, closes her eyes for a moment, listening to the flapping of linen sheets as the maid unravels them. They sound like the wings of a bird; a free bird, as she quietly slips away.
© 2016 TerpsichoreReviews
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15 Reviews Added on July 12, 2016 Last Updated on July 12, 2016 AuthorTerpsichoreLondon, United KingdomAboutNothing much to tell really. I work in the city, boring, but lucrative enough to enable me to spend most weekends away from the place. I enjoy writing, reading equally as much. Like retro style cloth.. more..Writing
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