Murderers do not usually give their victims notice. This is one death which, however terrible that last second of appalled realization, comes mercifully unburdened with anticipatory terror. Phillip had, after all, killed himself. Technically.
There was truth in the inanity.
I smelled death as soon as I opened the door. Not the honey and spice scented flowers from the freshly cut mix of Daphne, Witchhazel and Viburnum I had placed in the vase right before I departed for Wizard?s Hollow.
When I was nine years old, a rat had died in the crawlspace under my parent's house in Bordeaux. The stench of its decay had stayed in my nostrils for weeks after my father had removed the corpse. The same sickly-sweet odor enveloped me now like a noxious cloud.
I wanted to run. I imagined myself tearing down the steps to the courtyard, past the dozing hounds, into the street. Instead, I pushed the door open and forced myself to step into the room.
It was tiny and dim. The only light filtered in through a grimy dormer window. There had been a pathetic attempt at decor, with travel posters of exotic resorts, mostly white beaches and azure seas, and a few bright throw rugs on the dirt-colored linoleum. A shiny new lounge-chair looked out of place, incongruous among the thrift shop table and chairs. Phillip is cheap. Was. Was cheap. I smiled at the thought.
A bamboo screen made a pretense of dividing the place into living and sleeping areas. Behind it was a sink, a portable bidet, and a bed with an Indian print cover. A glossy photograph of some has-been actress, naked except for a feather boa, hung on the wall, and Phillip himself was spread-eagled on the bed, staring glassily at the ceiling.
I stared dumbly at the discolored face in its frame of dark hair. The clots of dirt clung that to his cheeks, his clothing. His hair was matted down with the stuff. There was also that rich underlying scent of dirt, not entirely unappealing. But then, that?s just me. Then the room began to tilt and, knowing I was about to faint, I knelt on the floor with my head between my knees.
?He isn?t really there.? I persevered with this belief, vehemently. When I enforced my eyes upward to assure myself of the truth. I was awarded with a neat and orderly room. It was blissfully absent of any decaying bodies.
Phillip was still in the flowerbed, feeding my freshly planted bulbs of Caladiums and Elephant Ear Black Magic. I did not want to think about seeing the body again, but part of me knew I would see it, again and again, awake and asleep, for a long time to come.
I exhaled loudly with relief. ?Well, that?s definitely a double t crossing of contentment.?
There was truth in the inanity.
I smelled death as soon as I opened the door. Not the honey and spice scented flowers from the freshly cut mix of Daphne, Witchhazel and Viburnum I had placed in the vase right before I departed for Wizard?s Hollow.
When I was nine years old, a rat had died in the crawlspace under my parent's house in Bordeaux. The stench of its decay had stayed in my nostrils for weeks after my father had removed the corpse. The same sickly-sweet odor enveloped me now like a noxious cloud.
I wanted to run. I imagined myself tearing down the steps to the courtyard, past the dozing hounds, into the street. Instead, I pushed the door open and forced myself to step into the room.
It was tiny and dim. The only light filtered in through a grimy dormer window. There had been a pathetic attempt at decor, with travel posters of exotic resorts, mostly white beaches and azure seas, and a few bright throw rugs on the dirt-colored linoleum. A shiny new lounge-chair looked out of place, incongruous among the thrift shop table and chairs. Phillip is cheap. Was. Was cheap. I smiled at the thought.
A bamboo screen made a pretense of dividing the place into living and sleeping areas. Behind it was a sink, a portable bidet, and a bed with an Indian print cover. A glossy photograph of some has-been actress, naked except for a feather boa, hung on the wall, and Phillip himself was spread-eagled on the bed, staring glassily at the ceiling.
I stared dumbly at the discolored face in its frame of dark hair. The clots of dirt clung that to his cheeks, his clothing. His hair was matted down with the stuff. There was also that rich underlying scent of dirt, not entirely unappealing. But then, that?s just me. Then the room began to tilt and, knowing I was about to faint, I knelt on the floor with my head between my knees.
?He isn?t really there.? I persevered with this belief, vehemently. When I enforced my eyes upward to assure myself of the truth. I was awarded with a neat and orderly room. It was blissfully absent of any decaying bodies.
Phillip was still in the flowerbed, feeding my freshly planted bulbs of Caladiums and Elephant Ear Black Magic. I did not want to think about seeing the body again, but part of me knew I would see it, again and again, awake and asleep, for a long time to come.
I exhaled loudly with relief. ?Well, that?s definitely a double t crossing of contentment.?