Page 85
Story: Kissing Carrion
“Like Herson says: ‘It’s just . . . the way I am’.”
Beck shut the car door in my face. Then rolled the window down, just a crack—enough to be heard through. And replied: “Then that’s a pity, David. Because I always wanted to think you were something more.”
* * *
The Cyprians say Love, capital “L,” is whatever you make of it—is you, to the infinite. You outside of you, loving someone like you love yourself; more than, actually.
In my case, it’d have to be.
I wish you love, Detective.
Real love.
Love the way you are.
Love, my emotional brain tumor. Love, my habit, my jones. My uncontrollable urge. My will to power. Love, my unscratched itch—my addiction, with all the word entails:
Ecstasy, mania, withdrawal. My suicide in progress.
I couldn’t have love soft and sweet if I tried—I know, believe me, because I have. I really have.
And suffering Christ! Just look what happened then.
* * *
Valentine’s Day night, four years ago: Rang the doorbell twice, three times. Beck answered on four. Had his pyjamas on already, 1950s slippers like my old man used to wear—sitting around the house, drinking beer till he passed out. Before he ate his gun, and we found out his pension wouldn’t even cover our utility bills.
“David,” Beck said, squinting out at me through the screen—more puzzled than anything else. “It’s very late.”
Not cold, not then. Cold would come later.
With me just nodding, moronically. Panting, so hard I could barely shape the words:
“Back there, with Mrs. Silas—that made you pretty sick, huh? Not too moral, right?”
Gently: “You’re drunk, David. Go home and sleep it off.”
The way his lips moved as he said it—oh, my. Those devil lips that know so well the art of lying . . .
Singing in my head, my groin. Georgia above the belt. Blood below, hissing—pure red/black, just like in the Temple, washing up on an endless tide.
“I did it for you,” I told him, “like I always do. The stuff you won’t. The dirty work, to keep you clean. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“Go home, David. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
His tongue, flickering—oh my, God damn.
And the words rising through me, voicing themselves for the very first time ever. The first, and worst, time.
“I love you, Beck. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
And did I see a little revulsion in his eyes, perhaps? A little bit of fear, even then? Surprise, at any rate.
Repeating, simply:
“Tomorrow.”
Already shutting the door, firmly, stopping just shy of an outright slam. I stuck my foot in the jamb; barely felt the impact, as it rebounded.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85 (Reading here)
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102