Bedsitter
The tap drips the anticipated promise, it is the conscious dismissive narrator to this room. A room caught between twilight and dawn, that forces the eyes to squeeze meaning to what they see as they scroll around the scene. The peeling portcullis to this derelict castle, held fast in its frame with 3 latches and a dead bolt, does anything but invite you in. My disguarded jacket will trip you as you enter across skinless and pummelled floor boards. Two beer bottles stand guard at its side but another,a fallen companion, has long since spilt its contents, creating a risen lake of perfect form on the flat plains of timber. The jacket folded into a mountainous range in this microcosmic world, is made of leather. It was a jacket that allured to rebelliousness and thuggery, a bike-less bikers jacket, a jacket of necessity. It lies scuffed almost a body like form retained in a state of bowed collapse, the visible shoulders seam is torn. There further on the sleeve is the now dried crimson Black evidence of blood. In this light it was as if the texture of the leather had been scuffed itself, and had cracked and flaked, but it is the blood. The blood of the night, the night that changed everything. Sarah's blood!
The jacket, discarded as it had been, rested at the side of the fraying arm of the paled, and stained sofa. This sofa stares back at me and my memories switch to its purchase at a railway market for $40. Sarah loved that sofa, of course it was old and had long seen better days past, but it was our sofa..the beginings of our lives together. It had been the frame of our love, it was the dance floor for our uniting bodies on so many occasions, indeed we had contributed and left our marks upon it. It had been the comforter of an army of many single visitors, our friends in states of collapse and incapacity after many nights of merriment and youthfulness. It was a friend. Its lurid colour, that of an old drying tangerine had held humorous charm. Now the orange was greyed, fogged in the memory of the night that had just passed, the memory of Sarah!
Why had the night that had begun in a whirlwind of familiar intoxication, a celebration of the end of another un-worked working week, the eve of partying in the city. Frequenting the temples of pulsating beats and gyrating throngs. The sweating, contorting tribal allegiance that is London.
Mark was sitting on the sofa staring out into the vastness of the ambiguous allusive coherence of his sparse thought. Taxiing on the runway, waiting to at last to propel himself airborne and scale new heights.
Tracy, Marks co pilot was over at the sink and the all important unframed mirror, with Sarah. Pruning and comparing, the competitive politics of close clubbing friends being all the bit as complicated as that of the highest levels of parliament . The altogether female dynamic of the departing ceremony. Their pharmaceutically infused giggling marking the excitement that was soon to be had. Sarah was wearing her alluringly tight cobalt blue sequinned tube top and her really short white denim skirt, the below knee, black, potently heeled boots finishing the provocative ensemble, an ensemble that enticed me now, as it did, when I first saw Sarah outside the Heaven club 2 years ago. She was then the wholesome prostitute of my erotic dream world, and she was in need of assistance. Sarah on that night was being pushed and shoved by an unsavoury leech of a boyfriend, Craig. I road in on a passionately erotically charged steed and became the knight in the night. Craig , floored never hassled her again, and we were perfect, or not as it seems.
There is no music in this lifeless room. There had always been music of one sort or another, and its absence is deafening. The absence is taunting, and threatening, a baited breath of the unfolding of the scene. The sofa was a testimony to the presence of music, for on its fruit liked skin were cd's both in their cases and orphaned, discarded. Music, surely the language of youth, of belonging,. Yet these discs, usually a bread crumbs journey of energetic rites of pleasure, a passage to hedonistic rhythms now, were fragments of the wreckage that ensued.
I can still see the way her body enticed in a captivating rhythmical coil to the beats of some of our favourite songs. Sarah had the ability to dance wherever and with who ever as if she completely was free, free from judgement or critical review and as such gained admiration for her celebration of that which many hide from. She would express her self openly. She was the central focus, a catalyst for others freedoms. She ignited in the moment and all caught the flame. She was beautiful, an ambiguous beauty, she captivated you in her completeness rather than any single aspect. Tall and slim, though never unhealthy or framed in such away so as to give the impression of a forced dietary dictatorship being in effect, more that she was just naturally slender, 'dancer like', she had long blond hair, straight and fine, tousled into having more substance than it did, and filling a room with a smell of hard lacquered victory. Her ivory skin almost without blemish. Her smile was of a child, an innocence, a charming captivating and altogether victorious champion of warmth. A slowly released smile that would cease any assault, end any harsh feelings and calm the most tempestuous rage. However it was this smile that was now never to be seen, the mouth now held in frame of expressive anguish. Of suffering, of pain. Of realisation, questions, acceptance and silence.
This mouth,held open in my minds eye, in expressive silent disbelief, was the mouth that had suckered my tears in moments of despair, had kissed more passionately than my most wildest untethered fantasies, and that enriched me with every spoken word, was now lifeless. If the eyes are a window to the soul, then the mouth is the exit when all is abandoned.
What word was to be uttered, what expression will never be heard. Her eyes spoke of betrayal, her eyes were widened in the disbelief of the moment. Briefly cast down as she swallowed the comprehension of the situation and then arisen afresh to ask the question why?
Why? Why does anything happen? What are the reason for our actions and our choices and can they ever be explained. The photograph on the coffee table to the side, but in front of the sofa was of Sarah and I on holiday in Greece. Why Greece? Why choose that place at that time? It always made us laugh how that happened. Sarah had just got her first pay-check from Woolworths for working over Christmas, and I had sold the old Ford Cortina for a bonus amount, and we both impulsively said “fuck it” and in less than 36 hours we were on the paradisical like beach in the Mediterranean avoiding moussaka for fish and chips, and having a ball. Life was spontaneous and full, as it was always with Sarah. We met Mike whilst over there and became great friends. He was holidaying with Theresa, his girlfriend at the time and was quite jaded with her. Theresa was the married on the second date kind of girl, and was always acting as if Mike and her were a married middle aged couple. Mike became an up obtrusive companion, showing discretion but always seemingly there when it was OK. He was an apologetic friend, careful not to offend or oppress with his presence, How rich is the schemed man escaping a human trap that was Theresa. Theresa herself, held both Sarah and I in complete contempt, It was as if she saw us as the one thing in the way of enslaving Mike into the realm of domestic undead. I should have seen the signs then. Had some cautionary concern over the reasons, the intentions.
Next to this photograph was another of the three of us at another wonderful place of quite a different sort. In this photograph we three were captured by the timed self mastering tool of our camera, poised and posed for the formulaic shot of revellers at a music festival. It was Glastonbury this year. Our attire was in stark contrast to that of the bikinis and boardies of Greece in the neighbouring image, instead we were here dressed for the traditional English summer. Wellington's and warm clothing not optional. Sarah shone, as always, laughing as she did in this image, half bowed in expulsive expression that epitomised her joy of life. A 'Marks' brother pose minus the cigar. It had rained the entire festival, the comradary in adversity was in effect. The main bands that year were ones which I wanted to see, and another festival had many more that Sarah wanted to see, but she agreed on Glastonbury! I loved that about her, her selfless commitment, her love, it was so precious. Mark was such a good friend to Sarah and I at Glastonbury. As I was 'moshing' at the parade representations of my music collection with my more musically orientated friends, I did so with the comfort that Sarah was occupied and had Marks company. Mark had declined joining the throng, prefering to stand back and “take it all in” he said. Sarah knew how much I wanted to celebrate some of my musical heroes and had given me the nod of approval, Marks preference and gesture freeing my choice. God I loved Sarah. Yet as with all things complacency crept in. Complacency was all around. Looking at this photo I am reminded it is the little things, the little things that should never go unnoticed. Should always be observed. Sarah's hands held behind her back as she leaned across me in this pose reached back and Mark was holding them, to act as a counterbalance? I should have noticed the little things, the prolonged hugs. Marks distracted attentions, the softness of word and gesture. I should have noticed. I should have been more aware, more observant of the little things. Sarah continued to smile and laugh at me from this image, my world. My world that had spun out of its orbit and hurtled to the darkest reaches of the all encompassing space that surrounds. Darkness, the absence of the sun, no light from this wonderful radiant being ever to be felt on my cold desolate surface.
Next to the sofa was a single unmatched chair. A single chair from a now lost family unit. Unlike the sofa, its origins and of how it came to this room was less than romantic. Rescued from a charity drop off as a matter of necessity. Its colour had been lost to years of use. Indeed it had a chameleon identity in this room, changing as to our foibles, our immediate taste, as it was constantly covered with loose throws to mask the damp imprints of mould. The chair half covered and half stripped of its softened veneer, on this occasion a lime green cotton blanket, had a magazine opened upon its seat and more around its base. They were music magazines, Mike was a music guru, loved downloading full collections of songs, often unheard commodities to give a sense of completeness if the truth be known. These magazines, accumulated and thumbed through and weary as they are , are his. A potent reminder of the presence of this horse, trojan in character. This once so assumed friend. This nemesis to my happiness.
Mike was a slight boy like figure of a man. His ambient history being that of a somewhat neglected if not abused child. He was the second row friend, but 1st in line dependant. He was as if a human pet. Seemingly loyal and dependable. He was unkempt, but still managed to endear himself to the whole circle of our friends. Humour was his amouress champion, and it worked when needed. He was always companioned, always seemingly involved but never committed. Tracey was no exception she was a long term friend of mine since school, indeed we had flirted with relationships off and on for many a year. She was Mikes longest lasting girlfriend at 3months and we had settled in to our routine 4 some at the increasing sacrifice to our broader circle of party-goers and friends, quite comfortably. Mike. How I was fooled, caught off guard, totally unexpectiing of such a betrayal. How many glances had passed without any correlation, how many lingering holds. He was always around, he was always with her...I can see that now, but then I saw it as nothing of concern more an affirmation on our friendship and sense of family. This incestuous bastard. This vile untrustworthy deceiver. Judas, Brutus of the play of my life theatre.
He maybe wasn't sat in such sparse thought as I had first assumed. It was more an uncomfortable, nervous at the potential for revelation. Cautious in the den of his master. A cowering dog, tail thrust sharply between his legs, snivelling dog. Maybe he could pick up on the volcanic well of hatred that had formed. Maybe he knew. If he did it made me hate him more. If he didn't then he would soon enough for I was primed, I was cocked ready to unload the rage of hatred upon him. His mask of friendship was slipping.
Did he know? Did he have any idea? I am sure that my manner was different, my countenance less than warmly. Did he just assume some other trouble, and was acting removed from me in a generally cautious way, or did he know? I was a 'fly off the handle', on occasion, ill tempered person, some would say moody, but my storms were quickly self eliminating episodes, friends knew just to give me space and allow for the internal resolution, without fuss without acknowledgement until after they had passed. Was this the case now, did he assume I was simply in a bad mood? Or did he know that I had heard the message on the answer machine. That I had with the evidence of his own words correlated the deceit and lies that had mockingly been applied. That his words on the message left so carelessly had opened my eyes to his vagabond and cowardly antics. This usurper, this fraud. It all made sense and made a sham of so much of my life. Of course I was watchful, even paranoid on occasion about how close Mike was to Sarah, but he was close to us both. His closeness and almost dog-like leanings were both wonderful and draining and Sarah and I had commented several times on these traits. We were a magical three. We had gone through trials and life chapters together, so I had dismissed these thoughts almost as quickly as they had surfaced. Sure there was intimacy, a gentle touch of the hand, a lingering hug, warm hellos and goodbyes..they all seemed so innocent, comforting in their familiarity but there was no doubt, Mike was a loyal friend. How different they seem now in the cold harsh light of forced revelation..that message began it all.
The answer machine and integrated phone is flashing, some purposeless call that shall remain unheard in the light of events. The light was flashing when I came home earlier than usual on Wednesday. I didn't press it straight away, the niceties of socialisation were seldom something I overtly entertained and Sarah took great joy in answering the phone and especially loved answer machine messages. Perhaps it was the affirmation of belonging, but more like a simple innocent childlike passion for comforting contact. I had pressed the button after considering the message it alluded to had been from Sarah alerting me to her delay or need of something, otherwise it would have waited there for its intended recipient.
“Hello Sarah...It's Mike. Sorry to ring you, I know its risky, but He never picks up the phone right so I figured it was okay. Monday night will be fine, I am so looking forward to it. I'll have to make my excuses because he has arranged for Daniel, Johnny and I to meet up at Byrons, because your supposed to be working late he wanted a night out like with the boys! I can get out of it, It'll be the perfect chance for us to get together. He hasn't got a clue. I can't wait. The reason I am calling is I think I left my bag at your place last night with an envelope in it I had to post. I am hoping its there anywhere coz I can't find it and its my application for college. If you find it can you post it for me. Anyway I'll see you tomorrow night. Love you. “Mu ah!” The final mock kiss was a playful thing that would have been seen in the way it always has but because of the deception contained it was a seering mocking. I couldn't think clearly, I couldn't at once believe this possible indeed it couldn't be, but I also couldn't deny it completely. I had found a note on the floor, a failed deposit to the waste basket to which it was found resting. It was a partially ripped up note, scribbled, it said we must be “very careful or else.....” the torn page making it impossible to read what came after and, “best fun I've ever...” it ended, “Love Mike.” As with an excited conversation with friends my mind raced to connect other relevant ingredients to this subterfuge. All the times Mike and Sarah were alone together that he knew of, all the times they could have been that he didn't. This was a rich hunting ground for the self effacing and torturing mind of doubts and jealousy. It moved from being unlikely and poised to be dismissed to fact quickly. More and more the compounding truth hit home. His Love, his friend, the ultimate deceit the ultimate betrayal. The pain he felt was intense, physical and levelling. As tears welled he felt the lava of his rage viscously, pronounce itself from within. He expelled a silent cry through clenched teeth, a saliva faint strand escaping as it passed, and he hit out. There was no target a blind thrust at the object, next to the phone there was a third picture, a picture just of Sarah and myself, we were smiling in the entrance way to the building, the theatre of this theatre. It seemed fitting it had been this, one of the most happiest of times that would be sacrificed to this rage. The glass shattered as it fell to the floor. Upon retrieving only a flashing moment of regret over its destruction was entertained. The object, for that is all it was in this moment, was hurriedly placed in the draw beneath amongst a whole assortment of things that had found themselves discovered without purpose, and had been hidden so as to maintain a degree of tidiness, batteries, paper clips, hair ties and topless pens amongst its concealed companions. The room now has no sign of this presence of these objects, no record or hint of this expressive act of anger, other than the haunted memory that lingers with me, the phone standing as it does unaccompanied and coldly devoid of emotion.
The first hint of any such dram is found on the side wall near the kitchen. The mirror where Sarah and Tracey pruned and preened themselves was shattered, a single punch had recreated the masterly arachnids artistry. This web-like creation the result of a more recent moment in time, the rage directed at a totally different target. It was my face I wished to obliterate. As my fist hit it, the pain I felt was unmoved and unaltered, for it came from with, it was immovable, it was adherent to my existence to my continued being in this place without Sarah. The mirror that had reflected her beautiful face hours earlier in preparation did not retain, for that I cursed it. If only the looking glass was tangible and the other world were Sarah still lived could be walked into, if only. The only walk to be made was to the single stainless steel sink to catch the blood that was dripping from the painless cut.
As the blood spiralled around the drain in hues of vermilion and crimson, like a solar flare I was recapturing the moment Sarah came home after I had heard the message. I was in the same spot as the door spluttered its announcement of its opening. I gathered myself, and continued preparing the oven meal that would be our dinner. The composure was surprising, the rage still stirred but was calculated, directed into a way of assessing the degree of injury. The trial was about to begin. Begin it did and it tested me to the limit. It was Marks voice that first came through as the door peeled open. Marks voice, my composure strained but the revelation of discovery was a two sided dagger in this instance. “Your home” he coughed in bowed surprise. “Sarah....” he began “I'm home darling and I've started dinner, thought I'd give you a surprise!” I quickly declared so as to thwart the cautionary declaration. “I got home early, I thought I'd make a nice dinner for the TWO of us.” I looked at Mark my composure crumbling, as I looked him up and down and strolled passed him toward the door. I greeted Sarah in an obstructive way at the threshold, I grabbed at her, her arms laden with carrier bags I put my arms around her, and territorially swept her up and kissed her. She at first accepting pulled away to identify a recognition of unfamiliarity with the language of this act.
I didn't acknowledge this perception instead eased away and strolled toward the kitchen, Oh and there is an answer machine message. “Oh that is from me Sarah, I'll erase it as I'm here and it was just about that thing I needed.” As Mark said this he moved with extreme precision, to the machine and pressed the delete button. “All messages deleted” the automated American female voice spoke. Had he time to notice, the light was statically illuminated, had he being able to take in that the message had been played, or as I took it, was in such a panic to delete the message that it had been unnoticed?
“I'd better be going then and leave you to it?” he spluttered, “ I just need those things.” he continued looking at Sarah. “Oh yes” and she moved quickly from her, until that moment, pause into the kitchen where she deposited the carrier bags on the counter. She reached down and from under the sink brought out a small black sports bag. I knew at once it to be Marks.
The tatty old black sports bag scuffed with a neglectful companionship. It had been mine. Mark Moved toward her as I surveyed the scene out-sided by my location, viewing as a spectator the the picture of a young couple in front of me. “Thank you. I had better be going now though.” he spluttered looking around at me as the words ended. He knew I knew. I could feel myself, the narrow eyes holding the armies of hatred, a portcullis to rage. He scathed past em and I heard the words “I'll see you out.” They descended the 3 floor staircase together, and the muffled voices grated upon me, my wounds open, pouring hatred and blackness my fists became clenched. I was fixed in this form until the softness of her singular voice bathed me and the door closed. My rage had a blinkered target, the betrayer was Mike, a friend, a wolf. The sheepskin now on the floor seen for all that he was. Surely Sarah had been innocent in this, she was coerced, taken advantage of. Still it was a changed feeling, that over took me as I continued toward the kitchen to complete dinner. The night past with nothing more than the words of nothingness, more common in the households of long term enslaved couples than this fertile nest of ours. The goodnight kiss as we lay by each others side was nothing more than a cloudy day in a long clear summer, it left its mark, but would be washed as the rays of a new day came. The sun that would see a champion emerge to thwart the abuser.
Mike got up from the sofa as the girls turned to show their readiness. Their pristine attention to details wasn't wasted. They were flaunting in Mikes exuberant acceptance of their plumage. As I turned from the sofa bed that I was perched I too became more animated. Now in her ultimate and alluring manifestation Sarah captured me again, once more under the spell that she had over me. She was so perfect and sexy. She tilted her head, pursed her lips and posed...I was won. In the instant all the trouble was forgotten. We were again the only people on the planet. We were all the words of love spoken through the ages, all of the poetry and verse. But then the Capulets made their presence felt! Marks words of encouragement were unimportant but they slammed me to the reality of this lost time. Brought me screaming to the reality of loss, and of how much I had indeed potentially lost. Encouragement for the retribution that had to come. Sarah in this moment of distraction...distracted me. Whilst my attention was upon Mark she had sidled toward me and began an embracing kiss that pulled me once more to our love. Her warmth, the delight in our closeness, this love. As we walked out of the door, all was well and the world was a blurred tapestry as my eyes were fixed on Sarah. We descended the stairs maintaining the embrace, only stopping as we piled into Mikes waiting car.
The pulsating beats, the familiar table over looking the dance floor, the familiar smiling faces, the drinks and smoke filled air. Our hedonistic palace. Conversations, anecdotes, catching up on the gossip all passed me by. I was cordial but lack lustre, not that Sarah noticed, the butterfly, was in flight from flower to flower. This was her moment. She magically flitted, yet always gave sufficient attention and continued to keep the stream of conversation. All the flowers beckoning her, wishing to have her pollinate their lives, their experience with the freshness and life affirming touch that was Sarah. My petals were touched many times but the fragrance of this flower was less potent this evening, the end of season. Only the occasional head tilt or intentful smile conveyed any perception of this from Sarah. She would kiss me tenderly, or squeeze me with the purpose of reassurance then would sore again to the bouquet of our friends.
Mark was sitting with Tracy in a booth and was more closed off than usual, attentive to her but distracted, he met my gaze often and cowered away, averting his gaze. The world gradually became increasingly blurred, as more and more I fell into the pool of focus on him. His brushing passed me en route to the toilets awoke me from a transfixed half-life. I looked at all of our occupied friends and marched after him. Uncertain of anything other than needing to confront him, to have it out. To pour my anger toward him. I walked and caught his pace. Down the steps past the dance floor and into the dark echoing corridor, a cold concrete floor , bare brick corridor. I sensed he knew someone was following him as he quickened his pace, but not looking back. He passed the ladies and quickly vanished into the gents. The absence of him sped me faster toward the door. The imbalance of tangible heart beat and echoed footsteps created an unnerving anxiety, a heightened expectation. There was a foreshortened claustrophobic feel to this moment. MY breathes becoming agitated and more purposeful,` til at last I stood at the door.
It held me there captive for sometime, in my nervous pre-amble. Mustering my nerve, my courage I pushed open the door and almost hit Mike coming out.
He smiled there was no concern no expectation of my anger, or intent, but this changed as he responded to my teeth clench, crumpled and venom spitting face...”you Bastard!” I exploded as I grabbed for his throat and pushed him inadvertently away. “You fucking bastard...how could you? All this time...and you...” I was interrupted as Mike recovering declared “What the Fuck!... are you insane, what the hell has gotten into you.” His acting of the innocent was exceptional, and all the more tormenting as a result. I lunged once more , a venomous hound of hades, a beast of vengance, salivating in the kill. We clashed in an embracing waltz of anger, pacifity ying to overwhelming yang as we turned on point and again seperated. I should kill you I said as I fumbled from my pocket the switchblade, that had until this moment been a token of my rebelliousness, than a significant weapon. This hated object, Sarah had always dictated it remained chastised in a drawer at home and as a result was carried in occult ignorance , glinted in the flourescent lighting of the bathroom. It was a token, but its presence was marked for Mark observed it with wide saucered eyes of suprise and awareness of the precariousness of the situation. Surely the act would stop, the confession would be made. The awful truth finally shared openly.. As I stood in the door way I paced backward a single step as I raised myself powerfully erect at his recognition of the dominance I now commanded. I could have smiled, the power filled me with accomplishment of retribution, but then it broke....”what are you doing you...” he said this without paying the price of exposure, the act was continued, the audacity, the contrived stance angered me more. I felt myself bite my own lip and the metallic taste of blood accompanied the numbed pain. I heard the beginnings of voices and crescendoing commotion behind me but my focus was acute...”Don't you da...” I declared as I prepared for my next assault. Blade raised his hands rising in defence, but the words were broken by a cry of “Don't!” Sarahs voice! It cut the situation, arrested my senses, the commenced aggressive thrust was off balanced by a pull on my left shoulder, the steel glided through the air as my arm contracted. I was a falling acrobat, as contact was made. Her face was clear in vision as my stumbling body turned, my extended arm in its redirected thrust, the penetrating shaft of reflective steel. The plunge into the soft perfect skin of her extended, oh so beautiful neck. The motion and momentum forcing her head to turn away further extending her neck away and her body to arch. Her outstretched arms quickly retracting. Her fall mirroring mine, the hilt now deeply in as clenched hand met with skin, the contact released my grip and she fell with the blade protruding. The rasping sounds, the addressed scream. The splutter of blood! The warm stream of crimson now spurting and pouring. As soon as my contorted falling body hit the floor, I raced to gather her fallen body into my arms. She was across the corridor outside of the bathroom, as I picked her up I cried out “oh my god, I am sorry, oh my god!” but she said nothing and yet everything with her surprised expression, her wounded face. Her eyes wide, her forehead wrinkled with the puzzle of events. Her breathing fast and stilted, her body labouring, struggling to maintain itself and altogether failing. The surprise gave way to release and she failed, she passed without word. I was the slayer of all that was beautiful in the world.
It grew within me. It took over as an inner release, a raging beast to be unleashed tore out and peeled itself as it escaped from within my own body. I heard his voice. “Oh my god...Sarah! What have you done?” as he came closer through the door where only moments earlier we were locked. My eyes were closing, my forehead wrinkled as tension made me precognitively rigid. His last words were “What have you done?” for as he said them I grasped the knife, pulled it from her neck, I spun in a lunging action to his stomach and hit home. Softness, resistance and warmth as the blade plunged deeply. I withdrew it as my body with the weight of purposeful momentum dictated toward him. His exasperated splutterings gave a pathetic, encouragement, to me to hurt this vile person, this corruptor that had brought such a hell to my heaven. As he fell I repeatedly hit home, each time changing subtly the direction his body travelled, subtle changes as the blade tore through flesh. Repeatedly , the blade glinted and shone silver and red as it both cleaned itself and bathed in his ever softening abdomen. His body now on the floor had slowly ceased to offer any resistance or protest. I pounded the blade ever faster home, again and again. His face I did not regard. It was the release of my loss. This man had stolen Sarah from me. He had stolen her twice, and betrayed me utterly. The tears that began shedding were not of remorse, that would have made real, but more tears of release, an orgasmic climax to the mistress of hate that had me in her grasp. It was an exasperated gasp that pulled me back into my body.
I looked around and saw the small form of a girl I knew on sight but had seldom spoke. She at once released me from my mistresses hold. I dropped the blade. I fumbled inside marks jacket pocket to find his keys, I clenched them hard and they bit back into my hand as I stood up. I walked past her and she shrunk as I passed, it was powerful yet so unwelcome. I was the demon in her eyes, the villain, the violent picture of chaos. I strolled in a haze of movement, blurred lights and bodies. There was no movement against me as I crossed the dance floor, bumping a few people as I did so. I would have hardly been noticable amongst the gyrations and movements of the throng. Then there was a movement of the heavy weighted black and menacingly attired bouncers. I was not stopped. They went passed, racing past me, but I knew it wouldn't be long. Perhaps the jibberings of the distraught witness to my crime would be incoherent, nonsensical and hysterical, whatever I continued on. Their was a commotion now behind me I could hear it even above the music. I was close to the door, Three sentries guarded the door to my freedom, their walkie talkies screaming insensible calls and shouts. One obviously frustrated at the inaudibility of the communique sped past quickly followed by another leaving only one. A young man that look flustered, almost paniced as I walked past him with his eyes looking only briefly at me. I was conscious of the blood that was visible but he was altogether distracted. My calmness was my protective cloak. My calmness that was manifest, was in spite of the raging torrent of emotion, and fear inside. I was out into the fresh air that now slammed my face. The mist of my breath contributing to the animalistic flight that I was now undertaking. The walk to the car was slow motion with the rest of the world speeding around me. I was vaguely aware of the sirens as I climbed in to Marks car, pausing momentarily to look back and see an ambulance pull up outside the front of the club. I calmly drove away.
The journey back here was a barrage of contrasting and conflicting thoughts, tenderest memories, passion filled normal events of total tranquil calm and the horrific faces of Sarah and Mark, dead by my hand. Physically shaking away these harpes, these tormentors. As I pulled up outside the apartment block I was turned to ice by the sight in the rear view. For a second as the car engine silenced at the turn of the key, I glanced and saw plainly Sarah and Mark looking back at me from the rear seat. I raced to get out, stumbling to the pavement as I did. I collected myself and rushed at the rear drivers door, pulling in a frustrated rage it did not yield. At last it pulld to in my hand and as it did I almost careered backward. I hurried to see upon regaining my footing but there was no one, then I saw it...the bag just visible in the darkness of the footwell was Marks bag. The Bag that had been a pinnacle ingrediant in the usurping of the lies. I snatched for it half expecting to be stopped by an apparition, a hand grasping from the grave. It came easily and I recoiled, pacing back ward a few steps before turning to walk to the staired entry.
The bag sits there now below me, sits there in this room, the room that leads me as stepping stones across a river to this point. The jacket where it sits discarded, the boots, the hifi I calmly turned off as I walked toward the kitchenette passed the sofa. The Kitchenette where I washed away the blood that was not mine. The Knife drawer open, and lighter as it relinguished its contents to my hand. The cupboard above the bench-top still half open after giving its contents to my hand. The knife joined by the bottle.
No picture of Wallis's Chatterton, altogether more pathetic. The drops of blood falling onto the leather of the bag and streaming down its side to the discarded contents fell from my arm now hanging languidly from the sofabeds base. The confetti of cards, the strewn contents, the secrets that were so important. Those hidden proofs, the evidence that would have utterly damned these two betrayers. The invites to my 'surprise Birthday party', the explanitory notes on the steering committee. The stratergy of my best friends and my lover to celebrate with me. The two that I had slain, the two who stand over my lifeless body. The door of this scene now pounding....but the words “open up...it's the Police.”, drift like my life before them into nothingness.