Four showers today and still so unclean, it’s not a smell but a state of being, a spectral odour on the spectrum between rotting meat and regret, secreted by my oblongata and sent to my senses, the stench of it lodged in the cavity of my humanity. I think about taking out the brain with pharmaceutical strikes, but that strategy already made me my own casualty. Better to scrub, rescrub and scour, become some skinless heroic villainess. Yet here’s a spot, again and again; and here’s the smell of blood still. Maybe I’ll bathe, soak and submerge my sins.
Dean’s sugar mellowed smile bores down on me and I have to act. I start in Midsummer, slide into one of the soliloquies and make my way into Macbeth. I try not to let my Horatio die, even as I am pierced by the acerbic plastic rustle of Dean’s foraging, his thick, somnolent fingers prying the bag on his lap for fresh candied pray. I hear him chewing between sonnets, his smacking lips palpating over my punctuation. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments. Some Caliban betrays me and leaves me limping to a close amidst the winter of our discontent.
I tap the dead woman’s leg with my toe tip and tell Laura, I don’t want to be here. She wrings her hands in an average Lady Macbeth and stretches her face into a little sorry about my friend look. I don’t know who it’s for, the dead take no courtesy. I shouldn’t have answered the phone tonight but I thought it might be important. Laura’s music is shuffling lethargically in the other room, Morrissey whining after Joy Division, and I tell her again, I don’t want to be here. This time it feels like I’m talking to myself.