1.
She
hit the water, the river, as it was violently penetrated by her body resolved
to fill all of her crevices at once and crush every bone in her body in
response. From such a height she would have seemed like a small pebble that
dislodged itself from the bridge, from across the lake at the island any onlookers
would only have seen the enormous structure sacrifice a piece of itself to the
depths. In her universe her body was falling but in her mind she was floating
in a world she could only see. Soaring through clouds and touching the tree
tops with her finger tips, completely encased in joy. When she hit the river,
she never knew. The detective, standing above her body found amongst the sludge
on the shore, wearing the stench of the previous night’s self-loathing, scoffed
at her bloated, broken frame.
From
the distance I am watching this from I can see all the commotion happening
from every angle. The reporters trying to get a good shot of the body without
showing too much, the onlookers trying to steal a glimpse that will fulfill
their morbid curiosity and the police who, with their soulless glance appear
completely indifferent to yet another suicide.
When the chief told him about the incident
Detective Tangello dealt with it with the same indifference which he had for
the previous thirteen years, since he stepped knee deep into the putrid cesspool
that was the city of Task, he has seen nothing to convince his hands not to
strangle what his eyes see every day. He carries out his duties the same way a
cleaner does as they are washing a toilet that’s full of shit, he does his job,
but the only light left in his eyes is the gleam of the alcohol still in his
system.
They
crack a joke at the deceased girl’s expense and the two of them laugh, forgetting
for the moment the young girl lying at their feet. All the memories she had of
loved ones and friends, destroyed by the water. A pile of flesh filled with
water is all that is left and the only people there who can regret for her are
two men who simply do not care and a crowd of people who never saw her face.
This
city is alive; I can feel its circulatory system pumping every day. It beats slowly
and precisely and without purpose. It’s too bad that all of these parasites are
injecting drugs and slime straight into its heart, everything is covered in poison.
I
have forgotten every story ever told to me, I replaced them with a twisted
satire of life, each situation written with comedic timing and every player a
farce. Day by day I walk under the bridge and watch them all perform, they jump
and glide through the air, screaming melodramatically, pushing, biting, clawing
at each other trying desperately to prove to everyone that they are real, but
they aren’t, the only real people I ever knew I killed in my dreams when I was
a boy. It’s a living, breathing marathon of absurdity and I can never change
the channel.
Now I
sit on this pathetically worn couch staring out the window, focusing my ears
on the gentle hum of the refrigerator as it clicks over its routine. My eyes are
fixed from the grotesque moving image in front me onto this letter I’m writing.
The two prostitutes I paid for are going at it against my window. One with her
bare ass pressed against it and the other pumping at her like he’s trying to
slaughter her from the inside. I would never participate in this mocking performance
of passion. Besides tonight my mind is elsewhere. My mind is on the pretty girl
at the river with the face of an angel and hair that’s full of cigarette ash. I’m
feeling a fatherly regret wash over me. I wonder, which of these prostitutes
has the drugs and which one the family?
Why
did I come here?
These
letters don’t comfort me much, I don’t regret what I did but the outcome was
unfortunate.
He gets off the chair and motions for them to finish,
walks to the fridge and drinks the rest of the milk. The prostitutes shake
themselves off and gather their things. He points to the money on the counter,
a completely silent transaction. The male follows the female out the door and
provokes him with a kiss face; he slams the door after them and locks it. He
stands there for a moment with his back against the door lighting a cigarette
for mock satisfaction. Remembering that there are no good women left, they are
either owned and broken or sold and dying; marked by the city that infected
them, branded with sorrow. His apartment smells like sex now but he likes it
that way because outside smells like death.
His cream coloured curtains wave in the breeze of his now
open apartment window, still with the oily smudge she left behind. He looks out
onto the smug city staring back at him. The dramatic high rises crowding in a
cluster in the middle, holding each other it seems for structural integrity.
The other buildings spilling out from them in a large fifty metre radius, slant
away from the middle like an atomic bomb went off and they are all still
rotting. The lights form in patches that look like a rash, all that he sees is
alive, and from corner to corner he can see it pulsing. He would gladly stand
here and watch it all burn to the ground, for as long as it takes he will wait
it out, but first he needs to find out what that rotten smell is and decide
whether he wants to fan it or get rid of it. He folds the three page letter in half
and places it carefully in the top drawer of his desk.
In the bathroom he looks at himself in the mirror, a handsome
man by their standards with long blonde hair, a strong build and a powerful
stance. He stares deeply into his own eyes, looking for where the similarities
end. He can see only them. In his disappointment he retires for the night.
