It is the fifth day since I last slept, and I cannot construct one coherent sentence out of my cerebral capacity.My mom had called me yesterday. I was still frisking the air for words when she hung up. The phone had rung thrice. I remember.
My room smells of gore and puke. Lover sits before me – immobile – his eyes upturned, half-open, like a door left ajar, unsure if he wants to let go of his thinning hold on this pretty world.
I remember it was last Monday that lover told me about a girl who had caught his fancy. He said he wanted an escape. I had spent days crying and begging for him to stay. But he left.
That girl lies dead, next to him, in my room.
Lover sits here before me, a splinter jutting from his mangled neck. It had gloriously spurted arterial blood when I shoved a broken bottle down his throat.
Lover had always had a thing for empty bottles.
I pick up my phone and text: “Hey mom! It’s a lovely day here. I’ll go out and have some wine today. Love.”
Lover is staring at me. His gaze, I tell you!— He always gave me butterflies in the stomach with that gaze of his.
“I love you,” I whisper, gently slitting his wrists, “forever. ”
I kiss his gnarled lip. I think I can sleep now.