October 29, 2005

The Night In Question

When you arrived at the scene, you found her with the top of her head sliced clean off. A beautiful mess you observed, the cut being so clean and pure; as if she was just some science experiment lodged in the passenger side of a Volkswagen. A silver Jetta that she had obviously loved (She was wearing a Jetta t-shirt, and black Jetta underwear).

Where the fuck do they sell those, you thought to youself, picking the top of her skull up off the floor of that Jetta.

You looked for clues as to what happened, what made that Jetta roll 4 and a half times down into the thick wooded brush along the Interstate. There was a cellular telephone open; you checked the call history. She had probably been on the phone while it all happened, talking about how her pussy burned a lot since last weekend with Todd. He better not have given her anything, that fucker, she probably told her girlfriend in confidence. God, I'll kill that slutty fucker, she probably said.

Or maybe she was talking to her neice or uncle, and the topic of her vagina never came up. You didn't know.

Either way, it was someone; and fuck will that memory stick with them forever now. Talking about a pussy or whatever, filing your nails on a slow Saturday evening, then bang, she's dead. Top of her head sliced right off.

Hopefully it wasn't her husband. Or kid. Or dad or mother.

There was also a man in the car with her. He had a dashboard stuck in his head, or vice versa. You were only interested in the girl, though. The man was someone else's responsibility. His pants were zipped up, though; and tightly buckled. So a fellatio-induced death was out of the question.

You wondered if she was still conscious for any period of time after it all happened. You remembered in training, and your childhood from various friends, hearing the stories about the head being alive for various times after decapitation, waiting for the oxygen to finally run its course. Do you worry? You kind of have to accept it, don't you? There's nothing much that can be done--no easy fix, get-recapitated-quick scheme that can be bought or sold or bartered for. Do you try to relive that one memory you want to keep with you, have through eternity, like maybe you can hang on to it--God or whatever if anything there is will let you hide it away. Or do you just say, goddamn, so this is how it ends, eh?

There is probably not enough time to find it, in those few seconds. Or maybe time slows down and you have forever to search those neurons and find the one you want to take with.

You wonder what this woman took with her. If she found something beautiful to hold onto forever.

You take another look around to see if there's anything else that can be of use to you. A lighter, a book of fiction, a magazine with various celebrities adorning the cover. Nothing much useful. There are cars driving by slowly in the only open lane, staring. Sucks to be them, they say with their eyes. Others just look annoyed that they had to add 38 minutes to their drive home. Others are visibly angry, muttering things that you cannot understand to themselves.

The EMTs want to take the bodies away now; they want you to move out of the way, so they can get the fuck out of here now. You put the top of her head in her lap and tell the techs, hey there is the top of her head, make sure it goes with her or I'm gonna have a lot of 'splaining to do.

You said it in a bad Ricky Ricardo voice and those who heard you laughed a little, but not hard. That was the reaction you were going for, though.

A little, but not too hard.

Posted by albu0009 at 8:08 PM