"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard
Some do it with a bitter look
Some with a flattering word
The coward does it with a kiss
The brave man with a sword”
|Oscar Wilde|
**
*
It’s light out. The sun has ascended to its peak, the occasional call of birds to each other interrupts the grave silence. The humidity of the air dulls the noise of the tweets though, weighing down the vibration of sound from travelling.
He’s seated with his legs folded under him, sweating profusely. His sweat is trickling down his face onto the hair of the head he is holding. There are sounds of anguish coming from his mouth, but no tears. He’s making sorrowful sounds, but the water in his eyes has long since dried. He leans in to the body, bending himself unnaturally, resting his forehead on hers.
She’s dead and he killed her. And all he can do is dry-heave bitterly while his sweat falls on her face like an incessant faucet drip. Some of it slides down her nose and reaches the edge of her mouth, slowly chipping away at the blood now congealing.
He exhales a deep sigh, one that seems to peel off from the floors of his bowels every frustration and regret concerning the circumstances leading to this avoidable and tragic moment. He gets up, lifts her body and carries it into his home. He gets a knife and cuts her up into many pieces. With these pieces he bags them and sends them to every woman he has ever loved. Each bag is accompanied with a piece of paper, with a note of sorts, scribbled and smudged with the blood of the one whom he allegedly loved. In it he makes a threat, a warning and a heartless proclamation…
**
~SOULTEA~
“Such a thing has never been seen or done, not since the day the Israelites came up out of Egypt. Just imagine! We must do something! So speak up!”Judges 19:29
