This is just a lil thing I did inspired by a song I heard (filth - band of buriers) :) I might continue it, not sure but for now its "in progress"! Rated yellow for mature because there's mention of murder. Blurb: Something strange has happened to Rebecca.


1. Faux-Mink Coat


A bruised young woman in a torn and stained faux-mink stole stands in the back garden of her grandmother’s house. It is the middle of the night. Her feet are bare and cut. It is silent now but before there was shouting and there was screaming. Her face and hands are wet but it is not raining. A man, much older than she, emerges and blocks the light that is thrown from the kitchen over-head lamp – the only light in garden. An axe swings from his right hand while his left wipes wet from his brow. They are the only two people left. The man goes to say something but she shakes her head. He leaves and she picks up the phone to call the police.

The smell of iron and liquor in the sitting room is palpable to the officers. The young woman sits in the back of a police car with all the doors open. She can only smell the faux fir tree air freshener. Her stole is gone, replaced with a tin sheet for trapping her body heat. An untouched, luke-warm cup of tea is in her hands. She stares forward her eye-line flowing between the chair and the head rest to fall on the front door of the house. It is painted bright red. The door opens and the trolley from the ambulance appears. It is covered with a blue sheet that bumps and lumps arise from. Her eyes follow the trolley to the ambulance. The whirring whistle of the ambulance follows it as it leaves. A police woman bends down to talk to her - to ask her her name.

                “Rebecca. It’s Rebecca”

His name?

                “Wulfe. Just Wulfe”

Touching noses. Giggles. Feet twisted in bedsheets. Coffee stained table cloths. The rows of bones swinging from the ceiling. Discarded piles of “Missing Animal” posters. Full pill containers. The gap in his front teeth. The soft hair at the nape of his neck. The growling. Snowglobes exploding into a million pieces of glass, glitter and water. The taste of iron in his mouth. The never-used oven. Her grandmother’s empty bed. The accusations. The bare graveside. The boos and the hisses and the crying herself to sleep against his warm shoulder. His hands, grainy and strong, trailing up her bare stomach. The rumbling laughter that spilled from their throats. The bruises that were painted over and hidden. The scars left to fade. Her necklace of ash hidden somewhere in the garden.

Two weeks later his body is buried. Murder flashes across all the newspapers. The husband of a high society lady is caught and arrested. Rebecca stands in the garden a shovel in her right hand. Her left hand scrubs her face. She begins to dig little holes sporadically around the garden. She drags the bench to the window and upturns every bed. The grass is sparse now and appears only in places around the holes. Her neck is bare and the shovel is heavy. She drops it and leaves. The doorbell rings.

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