drip, drip, drip

Posted on November 24, 2014. Filed under: Black & Blue |

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.
Robert slowly withdrew his hand, knife and all, back across the linen.
All the while staring at me.
He didn’t seem to bleed. Not until, at last, he levered the silver out of his palm and Arlo stuck a Glock 19 in his ear.
The worry had been, what with all that fancy cutlery knocking about, that Robert would slice my throat. Or neck. Taking out an artery. Taking out a vein.
Carotid. Jugular.
Taking me out.
The Prof was the Police Coroner, after all. He knew exactly where and how to cut. Even – or especially – old-school with a battered old-fashioned fish knife. Or maybe he’d just go for an eye, Dennis had suggested. Or both eyes, Arlo had added. Through he’d have to be pretty quick for both eyes.
And he’d have to want to die.
Robert had been advised – his own council, police, prison governor, district judge – that his effecting any all-of-a-sudden movements – never mind any actual right-across-the-table lunges – would see one or two of Dennis or Arlo’s ballistic missiles, at the speed of thought, lodged swiftly and snugly within his skull.
Bullets in.
Lights out.
Psycho.
But I knew Robert didn’t want to die.
And I knew he didn’t want to kill me.
“Jane Avril – La Mélinite,” he murmured, dropping his gaze to watch the blood pool a little in his palm.
“Right,” though I couldn’t see them right then, I knew his eyes too. As his breathing slowed and his body stilled, his pupils would be lazily dilating as he faintly tipped, levelled and retipped his hand toward the tabletop, regulating the flow and slow drip, drip, drip of his blood onto the receptive linen. “Always eating off of the ladies,” I muttered.
He looked sharply back up at me.
He’d been making me do it, too.
Eating off of the lovely ladies.
With a bleeding heart.
And a bleeding belly.

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