pie tray

Posted on January 20, 2014. Filed under: dissociative identity disorder, schizophrenia |

Fatima’s perfect breasts bloomed pale pink.

Her skin shone.  She, her body, was perfect.

Flawless.  Shaved.

She was on her back, eyes closed, laid out upon a smooth wicker mat.  Her arms were down by her sides with her hands, palms down, lying six inches or so away from her body.  And she was perfectly still.


The Shokunin, the Craftsman, had arranged her dark hair.  Fanning it out.  Carefully combing it into flat ripples like a miniature Zen garden, shaping a sleek foot-wide halo around her head and shoulders that started and finished with deep pink and white lotus blossoms laid against each of her ears.  He began arranging lotus petals within the garden.  And he didn’t seem to like my being there.

Like I gave a tiny rat crap.

Art, artist at work or not.  It seemed… unseemly.

Still, I gazed down at her and wondered where Robert had put his eggs.  All six of them.

“I never thanked you,” I said to her – and almost started with fright as Shokunin at once stopped and, delicate petals balanced upon his fingers, suddenly leant at me, thrusting forward, glaring like a crazed samurai with more than his bloodlust up.  Apparently, talking wasn’t allowed.

So I whispered,

“For whacking that nutter over the head with, what was that?, a pie tray?  Anyway.  Thanks.  It hurt.  Him strangling me, I mean.  Even with one hand.  I might’ve passed out.  Had you, y’know, not, y’know… with the pie thing.”  I hoped to make her chuckle.  Smile, then.  But… nothing.

She didn’t move a muscle.

“Are you okay?”

Her eyes didn’t even flicker beneath their closed lids.

“Are you still alive?”

Shokunin, glowering fiercely, abruptly threw his petals down and stormed from the room.

“I only ask because, well, I don’t mean to frighten you – seriously, I don’t – but you’re aware by now that someone is murdering carers where you work.  Specifically – and this you might not realise what with night shifts, day shifts, weekends, floor splits and everything – but definitely specifically, it’s my mother’s carers that are getting killed…”

Still, not a tremor.

“And since you’re caring for her now…”

Not a twitch.

“…how does that make you feel?” I thought I didn’t want to scare her.  Though, probably, I did want to.  “You must be fearful, I’m sure…”

Not a vibration.

Perfectly… still.

“He’s gone, by the way – the Shokunin.  He’s off in a huff, gone to get Robert probably – so you can talk to me…”


“Are you not worried?  That you may be next?”

Her skin: like marble.

“In fact, rumour has it, it’s me…”

Her pubis: shaved.

“It’s me that’s the murderer.”

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