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Might as well tell.   What does it matter now?


Back to School

Classes went back and so did I, laden with a backpack, a back story, and a sense of impending fucking doom.   Missed history class – couldn’t look my teacher in the eye – and it wasn’t because I hadn’t done the vacation reading.   It was because Py had been doing some blog reading, and knew I’d been lying to him.   A lot.

Back to the Wall

Lunchtime saw a kind of procession down the main school hall – Brix was back.   Only half days, and the dude’s in a wheelchair – but he’s awake and coherent and being welcomed like a fucking hero – and only I know what the pieces of Brix actually build up to.   Turned away and didn’t look.   For now.

Back to Before

Harm said she’d drop by later, which was awkward.   Dunno what had fucking prompted me to give my new address and say Carly could come by after school.   Cold curiosity to hear what had been happening with Kane?   A sadistic (masochistic?) desire to find who else I could fuck up, even from a distance?   Latent hunger for the girl that got away, maybe?   But she chickened out, the bitch.   No show.

Back to Back

And so I thought I’d go visit my neighbour.   Mrs Marley lived next door, in a flurry of very floral and cramped kitsch and overdressed porcelin dolls.   Until recently, of course, when she met with death unexpectedly.   After I gave her a new tenant.   Yeah.   You get it.   Amelia and I had an impromptu dinner together one night after that close call, whereupon she moved from my attic to my bedroom – to the apartment next door, and has been there ever since.   Amelia, that is.   Not Mrs Marley.   She just provided the dinner.


The neighbouring door was – oddly – ajar.

I pushed it, but there was some resistence for a moment – a slight weight that gave as I opened it enough to see in.

Nothing.   No-one.   Empty.

The faded and flowery interior design so beloved of its previous occupant was devoid of life.   But also – no Amelia.   Apparently.

But on the polished boards under my feet was a smear.

A curved red smear from where the door had been pushed open, and an unexpected door stop had slid, in a little crimson wake.

I looked behind the door.


A fragile, crushed figure, glass-eyed, drop-mouthed, torn open from below her throat to above her heart.

The girl of my dreams, the purveyor of my nightmares, was propped finally and terribly, with her back to the door, her head lolling grotesquely on her shoulder, and her rich, red blood spilt.   Everywhere.


Fuck.   Carly.





  1. Py?

    • Rosemarie Fullerton
    • Posted January 28, 2010 at 11:07 pm
    • Permalink
    • Reply


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