Posted on October 13, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

Robert had laid down his knife, taken a measured breath and, inch by measured inch, had skirted a handsome, beautifully manicured hand as far as his long-chain handcuffs would allow past the ornate bevel of his own fin de siècle Limoges dinner plate. He’d opened up his fingers toward me.
Had I half an inclination I might’ve wondered what he was doing, what he wanted exactly – but I was busy deciding where precisely upon a can-can girl’s smooth-bloomered cheek or thigh was an appropriate place to attempt to slash that shiny carrot.
I didn’t want it to, but my raddled left brain had to have a half-arsed go, though. Had to think it – think him – through.
What did Robert want? What did Mad Bobby expect?
That I’d reach right back toward him? Take his hand? Gently squeeze his fingers and, perhaps, whisper that it’s all right? Everything’s okay. They’ll get over it. The mothers. They’ll forgive. The fathers. They’ll forget. The brothers. Sisters. Friends. Lovers. Of the four young women you murdered.
All those children.
The children those girls were.
And their children.
The unconceived.
The children, now, that would never be.
I didn’t know what Robert wanted of me – and, terrible truth be told, I didn’t care.
So I stabbed him through the palm.
That’s what he got.
He got a blunt blade thrashing aside his delicate extended tendons as I thumped a burnished silver fish knife into his open palm – then briefly pressed harder as if to pin him to the table. The tablecloth was thick, though, and underneath, the table wasn’t actually a table at all. It was a modified steel detention bench to which Robert was attached via a couple of integral steel rings oil-rig-strength soldered to its underside.
Foot cuffed. Hand cuffed.
“What’s on your plate?” I asked.
Robert was frozen. Maybe his wince had frozen him.
Incy wincy. Spider.
Climbing up the spout.
Down came his razor.
And cut her throat right out.

<blockquote class=”twitter-tweet” lang=”en”>

“There’s dark humour and one liners but there are also beautifully tender words.” UK US #IARTG

— Morana Blue (@MoranaBlue) October 25, 2014


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