I see The Rose fall—she falls to
the sound of pulsing, bending collimated plasma—and I see that it is just. Away
from me float those embedded feelings, those habitual reactions I should have
bursting to the fore. But I don’t care for her anymore. How could I after what
she did to my sweet.
The mechanic
shoulders his blow-flamer and throws me a grin which I do not throw back. I think
that somehow this act, this last cleansing of the demons of my past would allow
my mind to sail free. But all I’ve done now is untether a mind that couldn’t
work without control.
“She died
well,” says the mechanic polishing the back of his hand with a rag. “Can’t
believe she fell for you . . . How much did you pay her for this anyway
Biscuit?”
No comments:
Post a Comment