(Not the darkest thing that has happened today…)
Flash Fiction Challenge: Write a story in the form of a speech
On the bedspread, firstly you splayed out your brain. There were glitchy, silvery pieces which seemed to spark as I tried to touch them, startling me with static shocks. The wires were swelling, I could feel them still pulsing, every synapse snapping – even though you were dead. Dead as you needed to be, for what I was going to do.
You didn’t make a mess. There was a pureness to all your corporeal form; it did not expel itself, as it possibly should have. Like a clock out of joint, your heart still ticked, reaching its soft hissing snare as I clawed at the edges. I could have eaten your whole bloody heart. That was how it felt, the longing. I can hardly explain it.
Did you unravel, did you unshed yourself from your skin? This is the thing: in all the gore and clot of your muscles and blood, I could not find you. I scooped up the cells like caviar, kept them close to me in various unlabelled jars, but still I struggled for your essence. It seemed to elude the very materials, the particles that held it, bubbling and dancing but nonetheless should have held it. You tasted sour as iron, your skin became lurid and turquoise under the chandelier, whose diamond-like light picked up every pore. My longing was poisoned, this scarlet ore which poured from my body, making its frail emanations. Carefully, I pressed in the needles to preserve you. I saw my own skin, pink-fingered against your lovely pale cerulean. It was a crying shame; to have to touch you, to desecrate the grave where you clung to the world like gossamer caught on the winter-thin branch of a sycamore.
The air around us grew ambient. I say it like this: there were radio sounds, snatches from the ether, drowned-out voices lost at sea, the swirl and churn of arpeggios, piano notes scattered on a tidal swathe. I recalled a million conversations, little snippets of things that you’d said, speeches preserved in that nook of your head where nobody could reach but me, clawing and hungry for any debris. For how long had we lived inside one another? And now that hideous beauty, taken to its logical conclusion. I disentangled your veins, drew out the molluscs of your organs, pulled rust and pennies from your gut, scraped clean the bones of your ribcage—but always your soul slipped away. I left your heart to stew in the succulent juices of some noirish nectar, the dark spirit you had drank with unfailing alacrity.
Visitors passed in the following weeks, but nobody noticed. It was only I who heard those ethereal noises, sounds which slipped through my brain with a strange familiarity. Yet all the while I could not puzzle nor sew them together; they were nonsensical, constantly crackling, as unwanted as the seeds of raspberries curdled in jam. Your voice stuck in my teeth, so I could not speak.
And even if I took all your pieces, if I burned you bit by bit in the fire of my grate, would that actually destroy you? I suspect you’d live on, sparkling in the air of the apartment; your thoughts as slippery as the mysterious synths which the house spirits play in the fragments of glitter-tinged dust. God, how I wanted to just stick a fork in your flesh. How I longed for the scrawl of your hand, the curls and flourishes of lust. Now I have every perfect fragment, is it possible to believe that this is not love?