* * *
She’s lying on her back,
one arm crooked so that her head rests on the delicate forearm. Long golden hair fanned out around her head
like the mark of divinity in Victorian paintings. Tiny ants, hundreds of them,
crawl on her face. Piss-ants, my grandmother called them, although I’m sure
they have a proper name.
The ants form a long column from Angela’s pale face to a
window across the room. When I woke to find them yesterday, I crushed dozens of
them with an ashtray, brushed them away from her face. But watching them now, I
see that I was wrong to interfere. They have their jobs, their place in the
world, just as I do. I admire them, the way they go about their business with
such detached, emotionless efficiency. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to
detach, to transcend emotion, and this is what holds me back from greatness.
There’s a smell in the air, not really unpleasant, but
there all the same. The coppery scent of blood, jasmine from Angela’s perfume,
the first sickly-sweet hint of rot, and beneath it all something indefinable
but utterly feminine. A fly lands in the corner of her left eye and pauses,
perhaps drinking what moisture remains. Outside, a door slams and I leap to my
feet, clutching the knife. Heavy footsteps approaching, I freeze, hold my
breath, wait. The footsteps come closer, pass Angela’s door, a car door slams
shut and an engine roars to life. All the breath comes out of me in a whoosh and I calm down. Just another
resident of the apartments, going on with their life, unaware of the small
drama taking place in number 9.
It’s nearly dark and I know I should be going, make my
escape and leave this mess for someone else to clean up, like all the others.
Three days is too long, I’ve overstayed my welcome. But just like always, the
damned emotions get in the way. I light a cigarette and settle back onto the
floor beside her.
It’s so hard to go.
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