Like Strawberry Jelly

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At some point, me dozing becomes a sleep proper, and in the space that exists only in my cunning mind, I have semi-strange dreams involving Meeko slicing off her skin with a stainless-steel kitchen knife. Hacking away oblivious to the pain she must be in, she takes off every last ounce of flesh as casually as if she’s dicing up a plate of mince, and then she feeds them to me piece by piece until it feels as though my belly’s about to burst. Usually, blood and stuff like that gives me the heebie-jeebies, yet in this dream, it doesn’t bother me at all. Her flesh tastes like strawberry jelly, and with each mouthful, it reminds me of the days of my childhood I’d long considered lost. Summer birthdays. End of school celebrations. Weekend trips to my grandparents’ house—shit like that. When I wake, I’m licking my lips with a content smile on my face; like a dog who got a bone, or a drunk happy to stay drunk. Rolling over, I go to wrap my arm around Meeko but find her no longer by my side. Turning the other way, I see her sat perched on the windowsill smoking one of my cigarettes. She’s nude and has her legs dangling over the edge with her back turned to me. Several months ago, she tried throwing herself out the very same window after one of our arguments—a particularly nasty one involving my alleged infidelity. Luckily for both of us, I managed to grab hold of her just in time. After I had her reasonably subdued, I tied her to the bed so she couldn’t do anything else. She’d screamed, of course. She’d screamed like a banshee, so I grabbed a sock from my underwear drawer and stuffed it in her mouth. On any other occasion, it would’ve been the scene of some exotic encounter, not the aftermath of a failed suicide attempt. In hindsight, I should’ve called the police, but in the heat of the moment, tying her up and stuffing her mouth with a sock seemed the most logical thing to do. In the present moment, though, she seems to be in quite the serene mood.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, propping myself up against the pillows behind me with some effort.

“Just looking,” she says without turning.

“I imagine those on the streets below will be getting quite the eyeful.”

“They can look at me all they want, but a look is all they’ll get.”

With the breeze blowing her brunette locks about her shoulders, the sun is eclipsed by her head, and in my dreamy state, she looks like an angel, and the horrors of my dreams are gone as quickly as they came.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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