Rabbit Skin Glue by Bedlam Elizabeth

Rabbit Skin Glue by Bedlam Elizabeth

Author:Bedlam, Elizabeth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-24T00:00:00+00:00


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Cook in Boiling Water (Any Colour)

Light filtered through the long windows. It was morning sometime later, and I was looking up at the chandelier, the candles snuffed out. The air was still, as was the room, the house itself, and all that inhabited it.

“Slipshod are you there?” I felt afraid to move lest something spill out. My fingers wandered downward to feel my torso. I was glued shut. Blushing red streaks ran from top to bottom like tetanus lines. I sat up and noticed I had to pull my skin up on my arms, like rolling up sleeves. My skull was on the floor. I swung my legs over the sides of the table and flopped to the ground to retrieve it.

The sticky tar from my life of death was left carelessly in a clear dish on the brass scale. It didn’t look how I thought it would. It was more like gelatin that had not finished thickening. Congealed at the bottom, but watery near the top. I turned away, eager to get out of this room.

Nasty stuff, huh? Glad it’s gone though. It stank like morgue in here.

Slipshod must have been nestled in my pelvis, which explained why my guts felt as if they wanted to purge. “I need to leave. Wherever is Lawrence? I can’t believe he’d have the nerve to abandon me.”

Well you did cut open his face.

“Whenever did I do that?”

It’s true. Remember the minotaur and the candelabra? BOOM! Just below the eye.

I vaguely recalled an incident where an iron maiden removed my clothing but nothing else. “I’m sure the fool had it coming. He always gets so obnoxious when he mixes hallucinogens and speed.” I said, wobbling to and fro, making for the doors.

The golden jackals were nowhere to be seen.

I had lost my clothing but managed to locate my diamond buckle Holocaust shoes, which were scuffed but elegant nonetheless. After phoning for a cab, I picked up a discarded trench coat and went out on the front steps to wait. I hugged myself against the early morning chill. The sun struggled to rise, clouds blotting out every attempt at warmth.

Through the thin material of the jacket I could feel the cold concrete of the stoop I was perched upon. It seems grand places like this were always deader than most. Maybe because the people that lived within were more removed than many. The emotions were nearly always faked, overly polite, just as they were taught going back to childhood. Smile, nod, and laugh loudly so no one knows you’re hollow inside. There’s no room for emotions because the idea of wealth takes up too much time.

Time is money, everyone always told me. Everything is always money. Money makes the world go around and makes everything easier, whether a person wants to admit it or not. It’s easier to ignore the misery inside you, when the luxury of wealth surrounds you.

I was sad to think my home felt much like this place, and many places up and down the highway, leaking into the east side of the city, large and grand and devoid of life.



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