THE DEVILS AND THE FLIES
I was drinking a warm cup of Earl Grey, listening to the satiated voice of a radio commentator, throwing my eyes upon a good book, dowsed with the heat of summer air. It was evening but the tirelessness, the persistent verdict of the humid and vexed wind stammered upon the scorching sweat and the dreary eyes passing by the night.
A latent heat, an abusive party of steam and hallucinations over a non-performing sight, a sight following a bright and limed flash of disillusion. The bergamot was addictive, the heat was making an unconscious trimming into the Freudian id, an evil forecast of irony, a silent hill over a patient midnight. A portrait of a painting in the in diem vivre of solid, unaffected streams of dementia filled in my mind like a brief, yet fluxed madness.
I was mad. I seek the comfort of its pungent odor to keep me awake, alas, I feel asleep by the dying ill at ease. Lo and behold!
I saw blood when I woke up, there was the tragic victim of a tempestuous fate. She was no more than a friend that should die by the fires of Rome when it was burned, a pitiful excuse of an illiterate frenzy of stunning words and solace music. There, the death was followed by the racing flies. The blood disembarked from her lifeless cadaver, consumed with a justice no judge ever did decree. There was silence once more but the buzzing continued as one by one, blowflies upon blowflies, each sipping a bit of blood, each laying at handful of eggs to feed their offspring.
Yes, she was dead. I fell asleep and she was dead.
What no tears could ever dictate can be seen in my frantic smile, in my joyous melancholy, in my imperceptible felicity. That b***h is dead! I laughed. I hollered at her inexistent soul that by now is decaying in the fires and brimstones of infernal damnation! Never did I ever become as happy as the time I cut open her throat with a knife. It was a small knife, she screamed with mercy, with unbearable pain. The more I dug in into her flesh, the happier it made me. And in the end, as if by a stroke of the clock's holy hands, there were no more cries. In pace.
I should have driven an axe into her skull that night- that happy, happy night. To end her pitiful excuse for a life, I would have crushed her brains with all the gore and grisly detail, and buried her by the walls of bricks, by there, she would decay in her long macabre slumber, never to talk again- just as what Poe fantasized. And every year, I would dig her out and crush another bone- a skull, a hip, a femur. She is silent now! She neither cries not chants her wicked songs. She was my friend, my dead friend. Her sallow eyes are no more, they are shut and bloodshot with all its lurid glory. Her wrinkled face now shows a pale, hoary mask mirroring the devil's dismal slaughter of a slut. A slut! She is dead, O the happiest of deaths!
It was the bergamot! The tea! It was the demented who killed her! It was not me! I heard the voice of the insane devils prating in my idle mind- as though awake, as though asleep. No one knows. Was I happy or was I mad? The ecstasy of grieve, the dawning sight, the dolorosa laughter kept on beating up the silence of the air. Nobody was there, no one was making a sound- but they were all staring at me! All of them! The flies and the devils kept on laughing at me, and I continued to gesture at their insulting smiles. I was dancing upon the fires of Hell!
Then all was gone.
All but just a dream. The pitiful dog was awake staring at me.#
