His Perfect Night (Final Round)

Pity, he thought-
Though why he thought this was a mystery
Considering he felt no pity.
No self-hate or small, insignifigant
Stabbing of conscience.
In truth he felt relief-
A relief that was like a burden
Being finally lifted away. And that's what it was.
Yes, that's what you were,
He thought, looking at the empty, naked capsule
(Still mockingly beautiful)
Lying on the floor,
Halloed by the light of the fire-
The capsule which had embodied
But was now just the empty shell his wife had Called home

He glanced at his hands,
Regarding them with a certain wonder.
Just moments ago
(Days? Months? Seconds?)
They had held that perfect, shiny metal object
(Now sadly dirtied with blood)
And carried out each thrusting blow-
So beautifully sexual in his mind-
And been the cause of those agonizing,
Melodious screams
Which had been as lovely to him as the sounds
Of passion.
Oh yeah, these hands could work miracles.

He lazily descended from his throne
(A red, musty armchair made of moth-eaten velvet)
And gracefully made his way to his...wife?
Or had murder severed the title as it had
Body from soul?
Did it matter?
He eased down beside her.
His miracle-hand carressed her hair
(No, death had not erased its silkiness, but then,
He didn't think much could.)
He remembered how she had cringed
The last time he had done this.
Of course, that had been with a knife to her
Throat...so perhaps she had reason.
"No cringing now, huh, Honey?"
He looked into her eyes,
Now clouded over with the fog of death,
Not even refelcting the firelight.
They had once been like a mirror-
(And did this mean seven years bad luck?
He hoped not.)
But this was just as well. (All the better.)
For he hd never liked seeing himself
Refelcted there and knowing that, to her,
His shape had been distorted to a monster's.

He wasn't a monster.
He was a god.
And because she hadn't seen this,
She had deserved death.
Just as a kitten deserved to drown for being
Born the smallest.
(Weaklings, all of them.)

A wry smile came across his features, then,
And, as if to prove something to the
Still mocking (how did she do it?)
Form of his wife
He stood up and once again undid his
Blood-splattered pants-
(this time she wouldn't be able to scream,
But he could forgo that little pleasure...
For now)-
For one, final round.


~Sara Stamets