“Assisted Living” by Davia Rivka

She hid behind the mask of her own demise, weathered, eviscerated.  Planting her fork like fingers into the soil of her dirty existence.  The jaw of her cavernous mouth dropped to the earth.  An army of ants, cockroaches, earth worms displaced by the weight of her unspoken words.  Bees hovered around the halo of her head.  A dizzy mix of palms pressed at the window, screaming for admittance.  They scratched and clawed at the glass.

She tucked one eye behind her ear.  Half seeing. Half hearing.  A parade of useless black flies inched their way up the inside of her pant leg.  Taking her skin with them.  She swatted at the air.  “Where have you been?” she asked the black television screen.  “We missed your vapid opinions, your excruciating references to Eden.”  The empty screen gurgled.  Offended.

The man paced.  Cane tucked in the crook of his crooked accounts.  He swatted at words, free floating in the stale air.  He lurched forward.  An out clasped hand lunging for a lost noun.  Too fast.  Too hard.  The noun squirted and exploded, dripping tomato like down the inside of his fleshless arm.  The outline of his body erased itself.  A puddle on the already brown carpet.

The woman spit cranberries across the horizon.  Followed by orange peels.  A lemon.  A rainbow taking root in the puddle of the man.  He leaked across the floor.  The heater vent beckoned.

She blew with the breath of garlic, sending shivers across the puddle.  He was pulled mightily down the vent, pouring himself into the body of the man in the floor below.  She sighed.  At last. Quiet.

Davia Rivka

© 2010