one minute
11: 59. Her hand trembles as she brings the glass to bruised lips. The crystal is clouded by a smear of carmine which contrasts against the golden liquid within. The nail on her right middle finger has been raggedly torn off and has left a bloody shard from which trails a single black hair. With her left hand she braces herself against the marble-topped hall table; her torn cream colored blouse hangs down onto the polished stone, the ruined silk somehow managing to look trashy in the dingy afternoon sunlight. Turquoise designer jeans hug her hips like an entranced lover and fall to brown leather boots which leave thick, maroon size-six footprints on the Italian tile. The beige walls are lined with paintings, high quality reproductions of favored French masters and lead down the hall to an arched entryway. A gilded chandelier hangs down from the vaulted ceiling and throws gossamer shadows into the spacious livingroom just beyond.
On the expensive Asian rug glints a sliver of high polished metal, a kitchen knife far removed from its familiar surroundings. Its blade is smeared and spotted with what seems to be extraneous rust and mere centimeters from the wood handle are pale fingers, similarly soiled. The hand these fingers belong to seem to be reaching, the arm outstretched far from the prone body of a man in his late twenties. Dark hair falls carelessly across a high brow, glazed brown eyes staring in shocked disbelief. His casual suit, formerly a crisp and pleasing blue-gray is stained a deep and virulent brown along the visible left side of his chest and abdomen; a handful of pearl buttons litter the carpet around his body.
A lone housefly buzzes its way from the livingroom to the kitchen just off the entryway. On the glass top dining table sits a china tea pot and two cups delicately inlaid with the pattern of peonies. Matching china is set at two places and a small tray of finger sandwiches is set beside a plate of English tea biscuits. The sugar bowl has been upset; a line of ants marches resolutely from the bowl, over embroidered cloth napkins and down a chair leg to the screen door, propped open to allow a slight breeze to drift in from the garden. Fine droplets of blood are spattered across the cheery daisy-yellow linoleum; a pearl earring with a bloody gold post sits on the floor by the double sink. A cat dish with the name Snuggles sits empty by the door.
Signs of a struggle are visible throughout the room: an upended spice rack by the doorway spills its treasures across the floor, a broken jar of cinnamon painting footprints from the sink to the hall. A china saucer lays in pieces after having been thrown against the wall in a fit of rage. A bloody fingerprint mars the wall leading to the livingroom, the hall carpet kicked up at one corner; a coral-painted fingernail sits absurdly atop the braided cloth. Here a hank of light auburn hair is tossed to the side, the roots still gleaming wetly in the mellow light. A bottle of golden rum sits on its side beside a silver tray holding a crystal tumbler, a box of cigars knocked to the polished hardwood. Tobacco is caught in some of the footprints, which have just begun to set.
A dazed quality wreaths her face in youthful light as she replays the last minute of her life, a single tear traversing her creamy, swollen skin from one puffy, bloodshot aquamarine eye.
Wheres my lunch? In the kitchen, dear. I thought wed have tea today. Whats this? Sandwiches. I-I thought you liked bacon and cucumber Look at this. Do you see whats wrong here? I... I keep telling you, but youre obviously too STUPID to UNDERSTAND! But you said Diagonally! Cut the sandwiches DIAGONALLY! Stupid bitch! No no, please no BITCH!
She flinches at the remembered echo, winces away from a blow only seconds old and bites a bruised, split lip as the fresh memory projects itself across mauve tinted lids. The sound of her hair tearing out of her scalp closely follows and her wounded hand tightens on the glass as she remembers the feel of a size twelve Prada shoe connecting with her tail bone as she kneels on the floor, hands clasped to the new bald spot on the side of her head.
Now go back in there and do it right.
The feel of the chefs knife in her hand is somehow both calming and enraging and, without conscious thought she returns to the livingroom where he has flipped the flat screen Toshiba to the Pig Skin channel as he waits for his freshly prepared lunch. He expects nothing, but when she walks into the room with the knife in hand, he grabs her blouse to give her another smack for making him wait an extra few seconds for his lunch. She wastes no time giving him exactly what he deserves. She remembers the way he looked at her, all shock and astonishment. It reminds her of the first time. She does not regret.
The glass is empty; her hand opens and the crystal crashes to the floor. She looks up into the antique silver-framed mirror and a manicured left hand trails down her marred face. The light catches on the diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band on one finger; she winces in pain; one of her perfect incisors is chipped where Joeys wedding ring caught it in a previous encounter. Hesitantly her eyes travel upward until she meets her own gaze in the glass, and Quinn Chambers stares into those empty orbs as though a bird mesmerized by a cobra. The pendulum clock by the front door bongs and clangs the hour as a neighbors alarmed voice calls out to Quinn from the garden. Noon arrives as, a world away, the sirens begin to wail.
El Fin