A tell-tale heart beats through the floor of the house next door, but this is a much darker tale than that. Where the fairy tales tell of wonder, this tale will dash it to the floor, smashing like a head of lettuce. Though a tale- you will have to let it suffice. For the real story, a story without the colorful sceanery and the qiup of a well penned line, is dark. It is dark with old blood on black fire chewed walls, slowly crawling towards the floor to pool and congeal and drown a lone black sugar ant searching with his tiny antenne for a scrap of meat. Dark like the eyes left starring- caught in the last moment of a longing. What darkness did those eyes see now? THey wouldn't see a golden light in a tale like this, only the black fire and the bbq stink of burned flesh... and black pooled blood.
In a place as fucked and messey as this, the awkward limbs and rigid flesh, one had to dream dark nightmares. Ones that happened in the comfort of your own home. The shit- the blood. The ripped photos of seared lovers, faces melted and distored into grotesque creatures capable of actng on dark impulsses. BEasts like that were for fariy tales- this is something much different and much darker. Something much more real.
THere was passion- no one can deny that fact. You could say it was passion that fuled this dark thing, before the smoke, and blood, and smashed lettuce head. The passion ran bright and fresh as it crashed into the reclaimed oak floor boards- splattering with a startling smack-
Now it sat laying like a molded head of lettuce, the only color in the whole stinking room. It hadnt been enough fule to burn the death from the neiborhood, and they would be found. When they did they wouldnt find the mingled flies and maggots feasting on starcrossed lovers. No this was no fariy tale of young stupid love. This was the real love story of Stacy and James, and Johnathan.
There in the kitchen.
A common enough place to find a knife, yet finding it broken inside the neck of Johnathan might suprise you. The papers would read weeks later, HE had been stabbed 46 times post mordim. The holes, dark claw marks on his soiled sweater vest, dark plaid shirt still tucked in one one side, he might have looked nice- handsom- if not for the caved in half of his head. He still wore the nardstrome calogne she loved but you couldnt smell it over the death. The pants had burned away along the lower half of John leaving melted polyester.
The walls that still held wallpaper displayed photos of smiling Stacy hanging on John at LAke Eola park last summer, after the church picnic. HEr mom Leanne and stepdad Paul. The neice she loved so much with the straw hair and tomboy knees. THey had all been witness to Johns death with the knife that had carved the Xmas turkey. They had slow cooked it all day, basting it with Moscato and cranberries. The blood almost looked like cranberry sauce as it lay dark and cold. It seemed unreal- almost like a fairy tale- But they dont make fairy tales about this kind of love story.
And we can call it a love story for what greater love is there than Death? Always there to welcome and kiss and say well done. The feeling so strong. The rage so hard. The violence so total. There is still a love story here yet it lacks the mystery to capture the mind in fariy tale. The deed is plain. The killer known. There was no hiding beneath the floorboards. No neat set-up. Just blood and love and death. Each beautiful in their own way. Each ugly. Complicated.
I must confess this is a tale of two loves and twice the death. Each sad. THey lay there entwined in a way that suggest one had to witness the others life leave in horror. One from the knife, the other from the poissoned wine that used to be in the bottle that crushed Johns head. The emerald green casting erie light. It is a story with details that mimik the fariy tales yet are wholly different. And yet the same. Two lovers are dead.
Another thing I must confess is the Mystery. For it was a strong hand that embraced Johns as he died, and still layed there in stiff comfort. Stacys smiling face looking down at the two wedding rings cutting the bloated fingers of James and Johnathan.
There is no moral. There is no neat ending. The mess and reak littered story has nothing to say to you except the world is dark as fuck sometimes. And complicated.
