BPOV

Chairpire is amused.

By me.

Again.

I want the mattress, the pillow, and these fuckawesome sheets of win when they toss me out.

And I want to glue ears and whiskers on him, photograph this and submit it to Lolcats.

Because chairpire is amused and he titters like a pussy.

And I am looking at Jasper, and Jasper is looking at me. And we are waiting for the other to say something to the shit I've just thrown out there into this really lovely room.

And chairpire is still amused and has decided on action.

He reaches back and grabs a pillow he had no need for from the chair he titters in, cocks his arm, and aims for j-emos face.

This is obviously going nowhere because I remember Jasper has wicked reflexes in a game of baseball I once and only ever saw once played live, a bat twirls and dances between his hands in my mind like a movie I watched but must remember I live in. He puts one hand out to deflect it. Jasper is not amused by chairpire and his attempt to divert this conversation. And the pillow snags on Jaspers outstretched fingernails and shears open like a knife skating through butter.

And we are all covered in feathers.

And I am suddenly looking at the memories of a dead girl I no longer recognise.

Flash back - Phoenix 2010 (M rated for a reason)

I forgot my keys in my locker at work in the haste to make it back in time, but the door has been propped open for me. They are home and out back. Renee is not patient and Phil has been itching to fire up the grill all day.

Men and there obsession with fire!

But the lights are off inside the hallway and everything is dark straight through the kitchen to the garden.

A glance up the stairs reveals the flickering flame of a candle.

What has she tried to plug in now!

I skip up the stairs wondering what the reasoning will be this time - maybe we'll make a fort again... There are bound to be no spare fuses here.

I flick the lights just in case.

They illuminate.

But there is no fort.

And nobody is waiting for the infamous hot sauce that sloshes in a tub in the bottom of my bag.

The once white room was now a deep red, blood had been splashed across every surface in the room.

Clumps of flesh stick to the walls, torn apart in a savage frenzy. Feathers from the mattress which has been slashed open were strewn across the room, in some cases in clumps mixed together with blood creating a sticky mass, in other patches they rest like frosting glazing a red velvet cake. It is violent, and it is raw, and it is primal.

The fan on the light spins and feathers floats down to me as the blades rotate and cut, they flow eddying and bowing on an invisible stream. One kisses the patent leather toe of my shoe.

I take a step

and it sticks there.

I look up and I am covered in feathers.

The bathroom door in the corner stands slightly ajar; I hope it's not like this in there too. I had spent the whole of yesterday cleaning it and I'd used up the dregs of the products Renee had hidden from herself around the house.

I walk in. I try to not register the way the carpet bubbles under my feet and the sucking at the rubber of the souls of my shoes. But it is there and my body is electric.

I vomit on the floor.

My mind is trying to expel the scene that threatens to sink into my skin, tattooing me in death.

Lying in a bath of red, a form chained to the shower rail takes deep wracking wheezing breaths, chunks of skin, and hair, a leg and both arms lay in the sink. The skin on the face has been all but torn off; only two dilated pupils stare back at me from the oozing lump of flesh. They are bright and the whites of them are startling.

The thing in the bath should no longer be recognisable. But the eyes. They are my mothers. But this is not my mother. And those can not be her eyes. And I can not be here because this can not exist. She lives in smiles and laughter, and the gash that bubbles with air and congealing blood will not, can not ever smile, and I am not listening to the sounds that are nothing like laughter rattle against off the tiled surfaces and strike my skin.

How is it alive?

Walking up to it, I withdraw the hunting knife that Charlie insisted I keep for self defence when he could no longer do the job from my bag. The thing in the bath stares at me and its head bobs and sways, not able to speak, conveying the message through this movement. It wants it done, it wants the pain to be over, and it knew it would not survive. I can not look at it's eyes. I can not associate this with her. This is not her.

And that's what this is.

Self defence.

I will not touch it with my hands.

It is automatic and clinical. I quickly slice the knife though into the spinal cord between the vertebrae. This was the most efficient way to end the dear that leapt into the path of my car in the forests of Washington on my way out. Death is instantaneous and merciful. I remember the tow truck boys saying so.

I wipe the knife slowly on a single snowy white towel that has escaped the sprays and swipes that decorate the hand crafted tiles like a Kandinsky painting.

The red comes off and the knife is clean.

I place it carefully on the counter. You must always treat knives with respect.

The towel drops from my fingers to the floor.

Feeling woozy, the view starts to swim before my eyes. It is all red now.

Nothing in this room is alive.

I will not faint among this. I fear touching anything else. Too much has touched me already inside, and I worry the stains will not come out of this blouse. How did they get there? I didn't touch anything! We are out of Vanish and the store will be closed by now, and the nearest open one is too far to get a taxi to with the money I made in tips tonight in my bag. And there is an old trick with salt and water but I do not recall the proportions and that little something extra, and it has not been written down.

I should make a list of the things we need.

Drawing in shallow rapid breaths I grip firmly at the clawing and shrieking beast that whisper shouts in my ear that something is trying to escape my soul and roll up my spine and out of my throat which is raw with bile.

I back out of the bathroom, seeing the bedroom again but praying this scene does not burn into my eyes.

It is there, I am aware, but I am laughing and dancing in another time for a woman who smiles kindly with her whole heart at me.

I blink.

The scene is gone and I am through the front door and outside.

And the air here doesn't drift heavy with rust and salt. And the scene is transformed to shades of grey in the moonlight.

Fireworks rocket across the sky and burn like roman candles exploding spider like across the stars.

It is the 4th of July.

And my heart is bleeding out on a snowy white towel on a bathroom floor.

Flashing cars stream towards me in the distance. The pulsing lights brightening and darkening the edges of the blades of grass that slide though my finger tips black white black white as I attempt to ground myself to this world.

Time lurches and a card is placed my hands. It is for valentines but it is not that day. It is the 4th and there are explosions everywhere in the sky.

The edges are gaudy and trimmed with white lace. The card is flocked with red softness. And inside is it carefully inscribed with five words and a signature

Your heart, for my heart.

- V

And I know this scene was sculpted with purpose and premeditation for me.

And I know of one person who would have seen this and is not seated beside me on the cold curb edge as the basalt leeches the heat from my bare legs.

I am cold again.

And a little girl will no longer dance for smiles.

She no longer exists.

--- End of flash back ---

I blink.

Chairpire is now floorpire, and Jasper has one hand wrapped around one of my spindly wrists - they are both breathing harshly. Gasping like fish out of water.

Somehow my eyes close.

I roll over and drift off to sleep.

This bed is warming in the sun and would not be the worst place to die...