Eating her Own Death
((A Chapter story from “To Save the Lopsided Sparrow) (Sequel to: “Cornfield Laughter”))
It was funny to Corporal Shannon O’Day to see Leticia shot at close range. There was something strange, almost comic to it—a bullet and all of a sudden an agitated surprise to the mad woman’s face, a surprise to find inside of her, in the center of her lair, to see her drop backwards (than catch her balance), next—to watch her go frantic in dizzying circles at some robotic electric impulse, as if she was racing ahead of death itself, inside of her. But the great puzzle was—for the moment anyway—the great puzzle of all was, the thing Shannon O’Day shook his head back and fourth about, and had to turn away from was—as she laughed (ashamed he was even looking at this mad woman’s humor) —that she madly ripped at her stomach area, tearing at it, until it split open, and pulling out her intestines and then stood there jerking them out and eating them, jerking them out and eating them, taking pleasure in it, relishing it; Shannon just would shake his head, horridly so, as it was unspeakable.
It was an awful sight. Self eating and devouring of the near-dead, herself, as she was dying; it all became stinking, foul. Death had played a dirty joke, so he felt. He looked around for whiskey, anything to drink, to get drunk on, anything kind of alcohol would suffice, and found a bottle of Watermelon wine under the straw topped bed, the one he was sitting on, and the very one he had recovered from his wound on, the very one he had slept on for eleven days. It was a half gallon of wine, the label read, “Watermelon Wine, aged one year, 2-3 large watermelons, up to 7-1/2 lbs, finely granulated sugar, 3 tsp acid blend, 2 crushed Camp den tablet, 3 tsp yeast nutrient packet Champagne yeast…(makes three galloons). It was in: English, French, Russian and German; someone was not taking sides, and selling his stock of wine to all the future, and potential, War Veterans, and anybody who could pay in general.
Shannon, sat on the edge of his bed started drinking the wine, drinking it half empty, looking at Leticia, drinking faster than he could swallow his saliva, having to spat on the side. He knew he had to get out of the lair, lest he get sick, and he never got sick from drinking, and he pulled himself together, sat outside, nervously holding onto the bottle, drinking it empty.
This was not anything to laugh about, openly or anytime, but he felt somehow superior to and wondered at this, as he looked at her, over his shoulder, her body still on the floor, than staggered out of town out of the war torn hamlet, called Douaumont, once and for all. He knew, instinctively so, that the battle of Verdun was over, if only now he could find his French Battalion.
5-6-2009, written out on the roof, Lima, Peru · A Chapter story for “To Save a Lopsided Sparrow” ·
((A Chapter story from “To Save the Lopsided Sparrow) (Sequel to: “Cornfield Laughter”))
It was funny to Corporal Shannon O’Day to see Leticia shot at close range. There was something strange, almost comic to it—a bullet and all of a sudden an agitated surprise to the mad woman’s face, a surprise to find inside of her, in the center of her lair, to see her drop backwards (than catch her balance), next—to watch her go frantic in dizzying circles at some robotic electric impulse, as if she was racing ahead of death itself, inside of her. But the great puzzle was—for the moment anyway—the great puzzle of all was, the thing Shannon O’Day shook his head back and fourth about, and had to turn away from was—as she laughed (ashamed he was even looking at this mad woman’s humor) —that she madly ripped at her stomach area, tearing at it, until it split open, and pulling out her intestines and then stood there jerking them out and eating them, jerking them out and eating them, taking pleasure in it, relishing it; Shannon just would shake his head, horridly so, as it was unspeakable.
It was an awful sight. Self eating and devouring of the near-dead, herself, as she was dying; it all became stinking, foul. Death had played a dirty joke, so he felt. He looked around for whiskey, anything to drink, to get drunk on, anything kind of alcohol would suffice, and found a bottle of Watermelon wine under the straw topped bed, the one he was sitting on, and the very one he had recovered from his wound on, the very one he had slept on for eleven days. It was a half gallon of wine, the label read, “Watermelon Wine, aged one year, 2-3 large watermelons, up to 7-1/2 lbs, finely granulated sugar, 3 tsp acid blend, 2 crushed Camp den tablet, 3 tsp yeast nutrient packet Champagne yeast…(makes three galloons). It was in: English, French, Russian and German; someone was not taking sides, and selling his stock of wine to all the future, and potential, War Veterans, and anybody who could pay in general.
Shannon, sat on the edge of his bed started drinking the wine, drinking it half empty, looking at Leticia, drinking faster than he could swallow his saliva, having to spat on the side. He knew he had to get out of the lair, lest he get sick, and he never got sick from drinking, and he pulled himself together, sat outside, nervously holding onto the bottle, drinking it empty.
This was not anything to laugh about, openly or anytime, but he felt somehow superior to and wondered at this, as he looked at her, over his shoulder, her body still on the floor, than staggered out of town out of the war torn hamlet, called Douaumont, once and for all. He knew, instinctively so, that the battle of Verdun was over, if only now he could find his French Battalion.
5-6-2009, written out on the roof, Lima, Peru · A Chapter story for “To Save a Lopsided Sparrow” ·
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