Three, two, one... I saw his head come off before my knife was done.
Silly civilians with their tricky lives, complicating the simplicities I partake for fun.
Why struggle so for a life that had ended way before I'd come anywhere near it?
His head rolls in the dust, and to my mind seems to explode into flames by the ferocity of my act.
Real head turner, I am; and jerker.
I'd take the whole thing with me if he still had mind to lose, but now it's just baggage and I don't have a compartment to store it.
Just the memory I'll take with me then, the rush, and the wind rushing my hair into droplet strands to dance before my face for me, his body strutting the funky chicken before collapsing at my feet... alone.
Poor Smokey Joe!
Hell, we've all been there or are going.
Alone is Hell, but entertaining company's worse.
I find Ketchup-like-claret ruins your appetite when dispensed from the gullet of one of your own dinner guests; the geezer of such mixed emotions rude and unsanitary.
But I'm used to entertaining myself now, I've become beyond inept at it.
Wish their expressions didn't bounce though; I never have enough time to get to know them.
Then again, I wish their stupid, balding faces didn't stare back at me with such looks of hatred and surprise when detaching like they do.
I'm complaining again, aren't I. Seriously though, victims, when I'm the one left behind with the mess and the questions?
I wonder what their last thoughts were... perhaps only one, a word, a mental image.
Did this one get to see the tunnel because I can see his; straight down it to his stomach.
I wonder if your last thought was of that half digested steak you wished you'd never eaten.
Last day on Earth and you were plagued by bellyache, and that bellyaching couldn't have ceased until you met me.
I had to chop your head off, just so you would shut up.
Still, no shame in separation.
We are all just pieces in the end, of other people, mostly, body parts all our lives, an arm here, a handshake there, my father's neuroses in the corner; mine once I lent him my ear.
But I severed all those ties long ago; and him.
Now, on my own, I just turn heads (but I think I'll have the next one clean this one up for me).
Nathan J.D.L. Rowark is a poet and horror novelist from London, England.
His works include over fifty poems and stories published in various e-zines, anthologies, and magazines since his return as a storyteller in 2010.
He is the founder of Horrified Press (horrifiedpress.wordpress.com)
and hopes to help publicise some of the great new stars working in
modern horror today.
Post a Comment