Strange Bedfellows
They had been multiplying steadily. In the crevices of the bed-frame, under forgotten layers of foam, on hardened corners of the box-spring, between undone sheets fading with laundry washes. Or maybe it is the spray of rain.One. One two. One two three. Sometimes four. That's how they feasted. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. They call it. Sometimes a midnight snack? The irony of it was that they were ALL midnight snacks. When you squish them between your fingers, or beat them to death with your bed-time book, they spill blood. Full and red. Like the lifeblood that gushes out of the man's throat in her dream. Or was it a nightmare? The one where she orders Cobain's throat to be sawed. No. Not head to groin. That was quicker death. She saw blood gushing like a fountain. They stuff it with his shirt. To keep it from bleeding. He's still alive. Laughing and waving at her, while they embalmed him. Not his voice.
She opens her eyes. Relief. It wasn't her that killed him. It was the gun. And the guitar.
Then she sees it. The bedbug, that's what. Small. But it grew in size and engulfed her vision as she drew closer. Until it was large enough to block the doorway. Like another Gregor Samsa. Should she play Grete? But they kept leaving trails of mess on the mattress corners. All the Gregors. One is hard enough to keep. She wonders if he sold anything yesterday, the manager has had enough to complain about anyway. And now there are so many of him.
But she is patient. Maybe the Lysol will work. She rubs the Calamine into the welts on her arms. The pink blobs smear and spread into swirls. Of a reassuring coolness. Then she sees them, the tiny scabs. And calls in the cleaning woman.
posted by Cos Θ @ 11:22 AM
2 comments
