1. Disposable
I have always found dead bodies particularly fascinating. This is especially true when it is a lonely summer night in the middle of the desert and the corpse happens to belong to some blonde skank who gave me attitude in a bar last Thursday. For once I could say it wasn’t my doing, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying the sight of thousands of tiny, white newborns nursing on her cadaver.
It was the smell that had led me to her, the sweet scent of decay wafting on the desert breeze, drawing me to the ditch where her body had been carefully laid out. I liked the way the moon lit the scene for me and the way her true-blue miniskirt was bunched up around her waist, legs spread, arms thrown above her head, blouse ripped open, partially baring once supple breasts to the night sky. Mostly though, it was the look on her face, her eyes a serene milky blue, staring off into the sky above and her obscenely gaping mouth with its whore’s red paint smeared across the boundaries of lips to chin and cheek.
Maggots decorated her crudely exposed flesh; ravenous, wriggling beads with their moist bodies glistening jewel-like in the light.
“The latest, edgiest trend in post-mortem fashion,” I mocked in my best computerized Jane voice as I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture of her. “You’d simply die to get it!” I turned to greet the man who had attempted to sneak up behind me, the shovel in his hands poised in the air still while his jaw fell open and his eyes widened.
“She yours?” I asked calmly, jerking my head toward the ditch in which she lay. The man, tall, thin, and balding with a pair of outdate wire framed glasses perched precariously on the brink of his large nose and a rumpled plaid button-up, lowered the shovel, apparently unable to attack when face to face with what he had thought would be his next victim, and then nodded with a dazed look across his face.
“What are you doing out here?” He rasped after clearing his throat, his discomfort with my presence and intrusion obvious even in the dim of the night.
“I like your work.” I said in lieu of answering his question. It amused me to see the moisture beading along his brow and the subtle way his eyes flicked to and fro, perhaps searching for an escape route, or a another weapon.
“Are you a cop?” I chuckled when he asked me this, and shook my head.
“Would we be having this conversation if I was?”
“No, I guess not.” For a moment I just stared at him, unblinking and with a broad grin plastered on my face, letting him wonder, letting him fidget until he finally snapped.“So why are you here then?”
I glanced back at the dead girl, cocked my head to one side, then the other, before replying:
“I don’t know, but I guess, since I am here, I could help you bury her.” To his puzzled expression I motioned to the shovel in his hand, “That is why you brought the shovel right? To bury her?” He nodded slowly but didn’t move, so I came to him and took it out of his hands. “We can take turns digging.”
After about an hour, my as of yet unnamed companion seemed to relax, and was standing over the ditch, staring down at his work with mild disappointment
. If I had to guess, I would have assumed that he wished she would have lasted longer and possibly didn’t share my love of decay.
“I tried to save her,” He said out of the blue, “but she was beyond redemption.”
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