taricorim (taricorim) wrote in tinuithil,
taricorim
taricorim
tinuithil

Bed of Bones

Bed of Bones
By Taricorim

'Mommy, why is there a skeleton in the closet?'

Nerves. Nerves were what got me in, and nerves will get me out. Nervous--very nervous, in the few days before. And she didn't help things, always talking, talking about her days, her friends, her trips, jabbering away in that high-pitched voice. It was irritating. What was I supposed to do?

They say that the first murder always feels ethereal. This was not ethereal; this was the most real thing that I have ever done. The feeling of warm blood splashing onto my face, her last shuddering breath, the wild struggles calming into stillness.... It makes me feel alive. And why not? Blood for blood, strength for strength, life for life.

Oh, the murder was ingenious, by far one of my most brilliant acts. By the time I was finished, all that was left were bones, shards and shards of bones. Bags of bones. I was drowning in bones; their dust filled the air that I breathed.

If only she could have know before! She haunted me. Everywhere I went, she followed with her demands and her stupid persistence. Oh, she was annoying.

'Mommy, why did you put it in the closet?'

And then she haunted me in my dreams. My nights belonged to her. What could I do? Her essence still filled the house; her presence dominated my subconscious.

So, I stowed her away. Deep in the cellar of the house, behind the musty old wine racks, was a wooden storage cupboards whose very support was crumbling into ashes.

But I did not kill her. Did I? I held the knife; I plunged it into yielding flesh, through bone--miles and miles of bone, it seemed--and into heart. I felt blood. I tasted it. I saw bone. It snapped under my hold.

But she did not die. There she is right now, standing before me. The bones in the cellar below clatter dully. She speaks... her mouth moves, yet there are no words. There are only tears, and blood, and bones, piles and piles of bones. She speaks.

'Mommy, why did you kill me?'

I didn't, honey. I had no choice; you left me none. You invited me, you persuaded me. You're my baby, you'll always be my baby, my little baby in a white flowery dress and satin sash. You're mine, my love, my life. You're my life.

I'm sorry.

Finis
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