2019-07-01 - A dish best served cold

Vengeance spills out of the jagged gash on her neck, pumping with the last few beats of a dying heart. Nonsense sounds dribble out of lips full of lies, choked screams. Clawing fingers grab at emptiness, the vapid emptiness that she deserves, the eternal emptiness that faces a fading soul.

Once she was pretty; I can sense that even as her skin pales and dies, the light of her life dimming with each stream of red that trickles into the pillow and soaks into the expensive sheets upon which she sleeps. That prettiness is gone forever now, I know, the whites of her eyes enormous in the darkness when they roll back in her head.

The hands cease to grasp. They fall onto the blanket, knotting for a moment, then they are still and slack. A breath of warm night air puffs in through the open window. A shadow moves against a window in an adjacent apartment, closing the blinds.

All is silent now.

In a few moments, the man in the other room will come to bed and find this horror show. He will scream. He will sob. He will call the police.

I know that it will do no good. I have come and gone in terrible silence, left no trace. I wonder dimly if they will blame it on her husband. But I don't worry about such things.

I am getting tired now. I shall go back to sleep for a while. Until something else catches my eye.