Abstract Anon started this discussion 10 years ago#55,109
I smelled of Tequila. Not just casually, as if I had taken a few drinks, but as if the Pacific Ocean was pure Tequila and I had been swimming in it with my clothes on. The Tequila was on my hair, on my eyebrows, on my face and under my chin on my shirt. My coat was off and I was lying flat on somebody's carpet and I was looking up at a framed photograph on the end of a plaster mantel. The frame was some kind of grained wood and the photo was intended to be arty, with a highlight on a long, thin, unhappy face, but all the highlight did was make the face look just that-long and thin and unhappy under some kind of flat, pale hair that might have been paint on a dried skull. There was writing across the corner of the photo behind the glass, but I couldn't read that.
It must have been Friday because the fish smell from the fish and chips-shop up the street was strong enough to build a garage on. Apart from that it was a nice warm day in summer, the tail of the afternoon.
I got my knees under me and stayed on all fours for a while, sniffing like a dog who can't finish his dinner and yet hates to leave it. I moved my head around on my neck. It hurt. I moved it some more and it still hurt, so I got up on my feet and discovered that I didn't have any shoes on.
It seemed like a nice apartment, not too cheap and not too expensive-the usual furniture, the usual drum lamp, the usual durable carpet. On the bed, a girl was lying, clothed in a pair of tan silk stockings. There were deep scratches that had bled and there was a thick bath towel across her middle, wadded up almost into a roll. Her eyes were open. The red hair that had been parted and strained back as if she hated it was still that way. But she didn't hate it any more.
She was dead.
Above and inside the hem of her left breast there was a scorched place the size of the palm of a man's hand, and in the middle of that there was a thimbleful of blazed blood. Blood had run down her side, but it had dried now.