the cicada's rattle

Considering I had killed her earlier in the day, I was not expecting Molly’s visit that night.

I had fallen asleep surprisingly easily given the day’s events, exhaustion apparently winning out over the continual loop of replays going through my head.  There was a certain disbelief running around in my thoughts – after all, I’d murdered someone today.  And not a random person this time: Molly, of all people.  Shouldn’t I feel a sense of accomplishment?  It surprised me that there was not more.  I wasn’t grief-stricken, wasn’t frightened; not at all concerned about a knock on the door from authorities.  But then, why should I be?  I had planned it meticulously, followed my procedure to the letter, encountered no complications.  Under different circumstances Molly might even be proud of me.  The only thing difficult left to do was to act surprised when I heard about it on the news.  Oh, and burn the note cards.  (I should make another list.  First thing in the morning!)

My sleep was a deep and coma-like, absent any dreams.  After a few hours a soft, midnight breeze snuck its way into the room from the partially open window.  The cold air chilled me deeply, my only protection being boxer shorts and a tee shirt.  Wasn’t I covered when I lay down?  Another shudder sent me scrambling while a hushed “goddammit” erupted involuntarily from my mouth.  Without my glasses and with only a blue-green glow from my bedside clock I could not see well enough to realize the covers were on the floor at the foot of the bed.  More asleep than awake, the necessity to bring warmth to my body was transformed by my subconscious into an irrational, panicked frenzy.  Hands flailing frantically, I spun around on the bed on all fours while another chill covered me in goose bumps.  Facing the foot of the bed I dropped to my stomach on the mattress, yelping as my arms draped over the edge and my hands swept the floor in a desperate attempt to overcome fright with heat and more sleep.

My hands landed on the interlaced pile of sheets and quilt, and I pulled them back onto the bed and over me, my racing heartbeat slowing to its normal pace.  Consciousness took over just enough to allow the realization that everything was normal, everything was ok.  (That is, other than the fact that I was now a murderer.  But I could deal with that in the morning.  I was warm now).  On my side with the covers up to my neck and tightly tucked around me I pressed my head deeply into the pillow, pulled my legs up into a fetal position for warmth and closed my eyes.  I let out a long sigh and quickly went back to sleep – totally oblivious to Molly sitting in the chair across the room, watching me with her legs crossed and hands folded over her chest.

She stared at me for several minutes, slowly shaking her head at the fact that I was still cold.  “Idiot never did have the sense to close the window,” she thought.  “He’ll lay there for hours shivering rather than spending two seconds to close the fucking window.  How did I end up marrying this asshole?”

the devil's thumbprint

He became sentient suddenly, conscious of the fact that moments before he had no thoughts, no awareness of his own existence.  He was not, and now he was.  Thus began thought and the emergence of understanding, yet he still failed to understand: what had come before, if he was before?

His vision was blurry and he felt suspended in liquid.  He could not make out the details of what was around him, swimming in soup.  He blinked rapidly, trying to get his sight in focus, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness yet of being surrounded at the same time.

Look out!

His reflection appeared to him suddenly, he flinched and changed directions.  Again!  No matter which way he turned - left, right, up, down - he found himself faced with himself.  With each alteration of course his reflections changed too, always out of the way, never colliding.  But the motion was not so much a mirror, it was delayed in its action.  He moved, the images moved.  Sometimes they moved first.  He dodged and ducked, always avoiding.  On what surface were these likenesses projected? His limited capacity offered only confusion, and the frantic darting caused exhaustion.

"You've got the brain of a four-year-old boy, and I bet he was glad to get rid of it."

A voice in his head, but a language he did not understand.  Hearing it brought neither concern nor comfort - only more bewilderment.  As he continued to move within the multitudes of himself he began to slow and calm down.  Nothing to be frightened of.  He could not look in any direction that was not filled with his own form, but each was just him.  No threat, no danger.  Only in the way.

Floating at the center of a diamond: seeing the refraction from within.

He stopped and rested, studying himself from all directions.  Slim, ordinary and naked.  Unremarkable but for the large, oval-shaped bruises on each side, as if a giant hand had held him tightly.  The hand of the demon himself, he thought.  The struggle to escape would explain the soreness in his muscles, but the wounds themselves did not hurt.  They appeared a part of his flesh, as if the confrontation was an ancient one.  He took pride in the fact that he had apparently been the victor, but he wished to know what his victory had been.  Perhaps only existence, and perhaps that was enough.

"Remember, you're fighting for this woman's honor, which is probably more than she ever did."

Suddenly the mirror-ball collapsed.  The images surrounding him caved in, crushing against his frame, their all-too-real presence making itself known with a suffocating force.  He felt their conjoined mass propelled upward towards a blinding light that scorched their sight and charred their skin.  The air was expelled from his chest and consciousness was almost immediately lost, hanging on only long enough for him to comprehend that he was no longer in the soup.  A rasping gasp as his being quelled, he finally understood.

"That's no way to carry ice!  Where are your tongs?"