A Hunger of Leeches and Wolves

No Gays Buried

The living room, beige and brown, broken only by the porcelain nicknacks above the fireplace. A sagging leather couch, atop which sits a well loved bear. And a thin layer of dust blankets it all. An unremarkable room, in an unremarkable house, sat next to an unremarkable oak, in an unremarkable town. Unremarkable, except for twin lines of red droplets, leading across the carpet.

Floorboards creek down the darkened hall, framed photos fading as he steps, like scribbling turpentine. A slate eyed boy of seventeen, holding only a white notebook and pen. His head turns, and cocks sideways.

The leather crinkles as he leans onto the couch. "It's time to murder my darlings," He lunges forward, pen to his paper, writing two words. "End scene!"

His eyebrows raise as he quickly snaps around.

A wooden bat cracks against his side. Script pages flying. He shouts as a pair of teenagers step from the fireplace. Lilac cardigan and orange crop top splattered with soot and drying blood. He lurches forward, lightless black knife materializing in hand. The girl in the cardigan's eye's flash with a blistering glow as she tosses a toy car, he trips, his face slams forward onto the persian rug. In confusion he throws his knife at the crop top wearing girl. She only smiles, as with a snap, everything stops.

He doesn't move, neither can the other girl or the knife, all suspended in place. As if frozen in time. With her form edged in static, she reaches down and plucks the ink-like blade from the air. She snaps her finger again, as he frantically stares, teeth clenched in silent rage. Handed an ax, she steps forward. And puts a dead, and cutting, end to the friendship.

"Fuck." She spits a glob of blood from her mouth, as she runs a hand through her tangerine hair. Staining it a redder hue.

"Cherry." Lavender kneels forward and closes the corpse's eyes. "That's really all you have to say." Light curls hiding the conflicted crinkle of her brow.

"What?"

She shrugs. "I mean," Standing up, she pulls a pair of backpacks from the closet. Brown eyes, sullen, as she checks the corduroy packs. "You did just decapitated Rick."

"Sorry Lavi," Turning to the corpse, Cherry curtsies with the flannel tied round her waist. "Fuck you Rickey Rotdick." She kicks his head like a limp soccer ball. Blood spurting. Rolling until it lands against Lavender's violet sneakers.

". . ."

"Better?'

"Not really." She shrugs, putting on a pair of wired headphones, as they head through the broken door. "You almost got blood on my converse." Walking down the all but empty streets. The same five houses arrange themselves in different shades, in repeat. No birds or people break the silence of shoes against gravel. The rest buried, faded, or gone. Words scrawl across the rising sun behind them. Sky flickering in colored bands.

"How about this then?" She kisses Lavender. It tastes like blood, but they don't seem to care. The pair break apart after a long minute, and turn to the edge of town. A dirt trail leading a winding path through overgrown woods. The trees somehow duller and richer, as a cold wind rustles through. Carrying a sense they can't describe. Under a blue sky.

Lavender's eyes flicker with images and sounds, burned at the seams. Flashes of a stupid argument, eating day-old takeout in a beat up Subaru, graying hair wrapped in a shawl, and Cherry's laughter as a seagull lands on her palm. Things. Little things. Stupid, amazing, and yet to be done. "A little." She smiles as she grabs her girlfriend's hand.

"Good." She grins back. She drops a VHS tape, and steps on it with a crack, as the town dissolves behind them.