To watch the leaves fall. - CHAPTER ONE

[1]

Sometimes I lie awake and dream about escaping. Other times I just dream about dental records, after all, that’s all we will be in the end, more or less. A set of imprints and bite marks, our lives spelt out on our teeth. As she lies crying in the corner with that messed up look on her face, I wonder if facials are genetic. I hope not, for her future children’s sake. I wonder if I should give her a painkiller so then she might stop her blubbering and that hideous face she is pulling, it’s starting to scare me. According to the writing on the back of the box it targets the pain and will bring relief. I could go get one for her, I know for a fact there is a white and green striped container full of them in the cabinet. It’s just a mask though; painkillers are just a big mind fuck, just because you can’t feel it anymore doesn’t mean that it isn’t still, more or less, happening. A mouthful of soap tasting pills won’t stop that grinning cut from bleeding all over the floor, sure she won’t feel the pain of her livelihood pouring out all over her hands but its still happening, and she still will, eventually, pass out from the blood loss. Painkillers are just a big practical joke. I rest my head back down onto the pillow and ponder dental records again. God bless them. Can’t just fix the problem with a sledgehammer to the face anymore, crushing in noses and chins won’t cut it. She continues to blubber in the corner, her upper lip rising over the top over her gums, revealing teeth, white like a doctors cloak. I smile at her, she really did have such nice teeth, it would be a shame to have to ruin them. I had asked her earlier what it felt like knowing she was about to die, she said she didn’t know. I asked her what she thought of dental records she said she supposed they were good. I told her they weren’t. I described to her the extra effort they made me have to put in. She said she didn’t like the sound of that, I then told her I had consumed a candy once, which tasted like teeth, or what I imagined teeth might taste like, more or less. She said that was gross, I told her it wasn’t and she should stop being so closed minded and try one herself. I could perhaps move her into the bathtub; tuck her up in her own fibreglass catacomb. I’m only stalling the inevitable. She’s lying in the corner of the room her knees tucked up in the fetal position. Her eyes are jammed shut and she groans softly to herself in some sort of meditation. I wonder if meditation ever works. Whenever I want to calm down I close my eyes and think about dental records. You’re a million times more relaxed when you can’t see, that’s why when birds crash into your windows your supposed to wrap them up and cover they’re eyes. Sometimes seeing can be more terrifying then not. I wonder if she could trust me if she couldn’t see me, maybe she would stop crying and would relax if she had no eyes. I would be doing her more or less a favour by offering to remove her eyes for her. No, I would be too squeamish for that sort of business, all that scooping and gauging, gives me the willies just thinking about it. She can keep her eyes. I roll over onto my side the bedsprings moan loudly and jab into my skin, “What’s it feel like to cry?” I ask her, watching her spine rise and fall against the fabric of her white blouse, “Is it everything you imagined it would be?” I continue, smiling again as her lab coat teeth shine out at me again, “Do you feel alive?” I ask. I roll onto my back, feeling my bones click as I stretch my arms out, “I feel alive just watching you,” I add, studying the deep slashes that graffiti my pale arms. My skin is fair, scattered with dark freckles, Nan always called them love spots but that’s just stupid, there is nothing lovely about them at all.
“I’ve decided to let you keep your eyes by the way,” I say, running my stubbly finger along the crispy red scars that jet horizontal, I like touching them, they feel hard and scratchy,
“No need to thank me for that or anything.” I like to call them my Lifelines. They help keep me awake and focused. She hasn’t spoken to me for about four hours; I wonder what she’s thinking in that little brain that sits so neatly behind her skull. I wonder how much her skull weighs and what exact shade of colour it is, “White eggshell”? “Java cream”? “Absolute White”? “Chiffon White”? I’ll go to a paint store and ask. “Do you know how much an average skull weighs?” I ask her, dropping my arms suddenly, I pause and look at her. “Of course you don’t.” I gape my mouth into a smile, “2.8 to 3.1 pounds, incase your interested.” Her head is bowed and she is facing away from me now, she looks oddly relaxed, tranquil, like a man presenting himself before God. As if she had given up all together and had accepted her fate. Or maybe she has escaped mentally and is picturing being at home or wherever you might imagine when you’re trapped. I think if I were bound up tightly with blue electricians tape in a grotty old freezing works I would picture being inside other peoples eyelids, I’d conjure up the darkness and stars they might see behind they’re eyes. Although I doubt I’d be afraid, I quite like the coldness of the concrete walls against my skin and that faint scent of body decay rolling around in my nostrils.
Her skin quivers slightly as she breathes, I wonder if she is still afraid.
“I’m sorry I cut your leg before,” I say, noting the thin grinning cut that licks down her calve,
“When you started screaming I freaked out a little and didn’t really know what to do.” I rub my hands over my face, “This whole thing is more stressful for me, I promise you.” I babble on for a bit, getting no response from her, I guess I’m trying to make her feel a little more comfortable, I don’t know why though, I’m only stalling the inevitable. Call it empathy maybe? Or maybe I just kinda like her. I wonder if she knows what’s going to happen. A lot of people wouldn’t guess the kind of things I get up to in my spare time, down at the old freeze works. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a bad crime sitcom, and I’m the loveable but deranged protagonist with the dark secret. In church they call kids like me vicious and worshippers of the devil, I don’t worship the devil by any means, I’m just a little jealous of his track record. According to everyone I know I’m a Christian, oh and yeah, apparently I believe in God, and apparently I’m going to Heaven. Sure, why not, I could deal with that, sitting pretty on a fluffy little cloud enjoying the view, yeah sure, as long as God doesn’t count knocking peoples teeth out as a sin. Surely God can understand that everyone needs a hobby. I think God need’s to get a hobby. If I could tell God anything, I'd tell him that he doesn’t exist, so then maybe he’d take the hint.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask her, dangling my legs off the side of the bed. “Because if you do, I don’t think we can be friends anymore.” I sit myself up and stretch out my shoulders, they make a loud clicking sound. “Do you know where we are?” I ask, my mouth stretching out into a yawn. She turns her face to mine and flashes out her lab coat teeth, the skin around the sides of her mouth sag as her bottom lip trembles, she bits down on it firmly to try and harness it’s movement. I love the fact she has no control over her own muscles. I’m also revelling in the fact she’s trying to hide her emotions from me. But I can see straight through her, the deep creases growing between her eyebrows and the redness flushing to her face tells me otherwise. I can tell her stomach is in knots and she’s got lumps rising up in her throat, she can’t speak without crying, that’s why she hasn’t said anything, but that’s okay, we’ve all been there, I won’t hold it against her. She’s from one of the catholic schools I think; I caught her round the back of this chapel, not my chapel, this other one with beautiful stained glass windows. I was out for a smoke in private, I had stopped to watch the leaves fall, and had taken off my blazer because the heaters had been on too high in my class. I can recall the distinct redness of the leaves that fluttered under her feet when she approached me. She had on a pair of those Mary Jane schoolgirl shoes. I watched every dainty step she took, each foot moving with purpose as if every step had been carefully calculated and thought out. Her hair had reminded me of the ocean, because I could just imagine how perfectly the moon would reflect upon it. She was quite gorgeous, I wanted to know how easy it would be to pull the skin over the back of her head and examine the core of her beauty. She had turned her face completely to mine as she had walked past me, her eyes inside mine, mine inside hers. In that moment I decided I would stop her.
“Ditching class?” I asked, my speech hindered by the cigarette wedged in the corner of my mouth, I grinned as she stopped in her tracks, denting my teeth in the paper of my smoke. She turned her eyes to me, her eyeballs rolling in the sockets, “Who are you, the truancy police?” she responded, parting her lips into a small smile, I loved the way her veins shone purple through her eyelids when she blinked. “Sure,” I said, blowing a curl of smoke over my lips, I scratched my fingernails against the bark of the tree behind me. “You’re probably missing out on some important stuff you know.” I joked, squinting my eyes up as the sun peaked from over the steeple of the chapel. She stretched her lightly glossed lips over her gums as she laughed, that was when I first caught sight of her teeth, and in that moment I knew exactly what I wanted to do. “So what,” she said, combing strands of her hair out of her eyes, “And you?” she added, “What are you doing out of class?” I let my cigarette slip backwards a little, resting it momentarily on my tongue, “I don’t go to school,” I say, tasting the ash in my mouth and feeling the breeze on my cheek. “Oh? So you wear that blazer optionally do you?” she says looking at it discarded on the ground. We both laugh. “Sure.” I smile, stubbing my cigarette along the trunk of the tree. “Poor tree.” She chuckles, I can tell by the high pitched sound to her laugh that I’ve at the very least sparked her interest. I wonder if she feels safe with me. She rests her hand on the tree I’m leaning against; twisting her body in closer to mine we are almost touching,
“What’s your name?” she asks, the edge of her white blouse sleeve brushing against my shoulder.
“Damion,” I answer, letting the cigarette slip through my fingers and land on the grass.
“Damion who?” she guides her body around the front of the tree and stands in front of me, I watch the veins in her forehead arch out slightly as she raises her brows in curiosity.
“No one you would know,” I say raising my eyebrows back at her, I’m playing the mysterious card, I heard girls dug that shit, and so far my coolness seemed to be working out nicely.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” she asks, flashing her dentist perfection teeth at me once again. Reinforcing the idea I had in my head earlier.
“No,” I grin. My number one rule has always been to have the person remain nameless. Otherwise it becomes too personal and I might run the risk of becoming attached and, yes believe it or not, actually mourning the death of the individual. When you spend such intimate moments with someone its difficult not to grow a little fond of them, there is nothing more intimate then death. Watching they’re eyes die out and turn to glass, capturing the reflection of your face forever.
“It doesn’t seem so important.” She pulls on a strand of my hair that flicks out from under my beanie, “You have amazing hair,” she says.
I want to tell her that her bone structure is amazing.
“How so?”
“The colour. It’s vermillion.” She says.
“Your good with colours.” I smile.
“It’s nice.”
“Thanks, it’s dyed.”
“It is?” the sound of her breath echoes through my ears.
“Yeah, I did it to fuck off my parents.”
We laugh again; I could feel her ribcage pressing against the side of my arm, like a metal birdcage.
“Fair enough,” she says.
We stand quiet for a moment. The wind slithers through the remaining leaves that cling to the skeletal branches.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“17.”
“Ha really? You look older then that.” She adds, leaning her face in closer to mine, I can see her skull pressing against her skin; I hope that it might just burst through to the other side.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“18.”
“You can drink then.” I say, closing my eyes and listening to the sound of her breathing, the low echoing sighs, the softness of it against my skin, she is relaxed with me. I want to tell her to take a moment to close her eyes and listen to the sounds of life, I want to tell her to take a moment to appreciate being really alive, really feel the expansion of her lungs against her ribcage and taste the blandness of the saliva in her mouth, squeeze shut her eyelids but still be able to see colours as the sunlight seeps through, I want her to know how lucky she is that in this moment she can pull her eyes open at anytime and will still be alive.
“Listen,” I say, opening my eyes, “Maybe you should go home.”
“Why?” she asks, moving her eyes back onto mine.
I pause and look down at the leaves that had gathered around our feet. “People don’t genuinely talk to me for as long as you have.” Like little blood covered butterflies nailed to the ground.
She could have left at anytime; I had given her an avenue to escape, but she hadn’t taken it.
“Should I be scared of you?” She asks, sliding her feet across the crimson wings of the leaves.
“Never mind.” I say, touching the sleeve of her blouse with my fingers. “Have you ever been down by the old freeze works?” I ask, running the tip of my finger along the seam that ran across her shoulder.
“The where?”
“Forget it.” I say.
“Your weird.” She says.
“I get that a lot.” I say pausing for a moment to study the creases beginning to form between her eyebrows, “It’s okay.” I add. “I’m not offended or anything.” She continues to eyeball me without saying anything, I watch the tiny red veins that scatter to the corner of her eye, they snake out like miniature tree branches. “Do you want me to walk you home or something?” I ask. This is a genuine offer from me. She shakes her head slowly, her angel’s head of hair fluttering against her neck.
I pull another cigarette out from the pocket of my dress shirt, and scrunch it between my lips. I lift my eyes back to hers as I light it, I wonder what she’s thinking, her eyes are the colour of surgery tools, glistening and silver. “I’m Damion Ritter by the way.” I say, curling a cloud of smoke from my mouth, “And you were right before.”
“Right about what?” she asks, flickering her scalpel eyes.
“I do go to school, I go to the boarding school up the road.”
“Saint Andrew’s.” she says.
“Yeah. I board there, well I’m meant to be boarding there, but I slip out from time to time.”
“Like now?” she smiles.
“Yeah like now.”
I could see the little clocks ticking away inside her brain as she tried to figure me out. There’s a ticking going on inside my brain too, an itching, a twitching little feeling that crawls its way across my skull and burrows deeply in the back of my eyes, a feeling that I had been fighting to block out the whole time.
“Did your parent’s want you to board there or did you choose to?”
“They sent me.” I answer, pouring more smoke from my mouth.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
A feeling that makes my whole body turn cold and my mind focus only on one thing. She continues to talk, me watching her muted lips move and lab coat teeth reveal themselves in a smile. Mind and body completely disconnected from each other.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
“Why did they send you there?”
Each rash movement followed by another. A heaviness that stretches across your brain and feels like someone else is in there, pulling and yanking on strings, trying to get you to move against your will. I picture tearing the skin down her face, splitting right down the middle and pulling away easily like cheap fabric. Stretching it over the back of her head and over her snow globe hair like a net.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
“Damion?”
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
Her skull would sit there so neatly, presenting itself shyly, small in size, with tiny intendments, like the surface of the moon.
“Damion?”
I clench my fists tightly and surprece it.
“Sorry what?” I murmer, rubbing my face furiously with my hands, trying to relax and regain my composure.
“I asked you why your parent’s sent you to boarding school?” she says, angling her spine against the tree trunk.
“That’s a bit of a personal question to ask a stranger.” I say, sliding myself down onto the grass, breathing out heavily.
“Sorry.” She says, twisting herself around the other side of tree.
“They sent me there to straighten me out.” I say, kicking the leaves lightly with my shoe.
“What did you do?” she asks.
“Bad stuff.” I answer. The wind rustles loudly through the trees, sending the leaves dancing in front of our eyes. The branches creak against the side of the chapel.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“It doesn’t matter okay.” I say, rubbing out my cigarette against the tree.
“Okay, sorry.” She answers.
I scrunch the cigarette butt up in my hand and throw it forward into the grass.
We sit in silence for a moment; the clouds above us rotating round like a kaleidoscope. I watched them quietly, wondering what God was thinking about. They say God is everywhere, and that he is always watching. Was he there now? Was he watching us sitting under the blood drive leaves? Would he stop me? Could he even? Was there a cloud up there reserved for her? Right next to him I hoped.
“My mum always used to say that if you write something on a piece of paper and release it into the wind it’ll reach heaven.” I say.
She presses her face against the bark of the tree, her lips slipping into a smile, the light sparking glitter in the gloss she wore, “I like the sound of that.” She said lowering her voice to an almost whisper. I felt my skin shudder as she spoke, the hush to her words made me shiver all over; whispering is the speech of the dead.
“Do you think you would be able to find your way to Heaven when you die?” I ask, “Or would you just get lost wandering the empty places of the afterlife for ever?”
“I would hope there would be street signs.” She laughs.
“Yeah, and little lamps that float in mid air along the sidewalks.” I add.
“Sidewalks?”
“Yup, in my Heaven there would be sidewalks, and big factories too, that pour thick black smoke everywhere.”
“That sounds more like Hell.”
“Maybe it is. Do you think if there was a Hell everyone should just keep it a secret and just let everyone go to Heaven? That way there would be no fear in death.”
“No. Because where would they send all the murderers?” she laughs,
“I forgot about them.” I say, fighting to hide the smile that was tugging at the corners of my lips.
“Listen,” she say’s looking briefly over her shoulder, “I better get going, it was nice talking to you though.”
“Okay.” I say, feeling the ticking in my brain return. She reaches her hand out to mine, I watch the bones arch themselves under her skin.
I remember taking hold of her hand. I can remember feeling the warmth of it against mine, feeling her alive inside my clasped fingers. I remember the way she tried to pull her hand away from mine, and that moment where I decided I wasn’t going to let go.
I can remember the way her head fell backwards in under my chin and the rattling of her breath as I pulled her bones in tightly together. Twisting her fingers into tight little knots around themselves. The leaves bleeding atop of our heads as I slid my hand over her mouth. All sounds ceased to exist as I rammed her precious little skull against the tree. Feeling the wetness of her tears pour over my hands. Over and over again, into the tree. Streams of blood dotting along her forehead, her mouth fighting hard against the palm of my hand. She screamed and screamed. That’s when I cut her. A thin and precise butchers cut. With no witness but the angels in the glassed windows of the church and the leaves that continued to fall at our feet. No hero or savior. Just me with my hands now wrapped around her throat, thrusting her face hard into the tree one more time, knocking her out cold. The knife on the grass drowning red over her shoes, and I, lusting for a kill.

I stare at her now with her snivelling little lips and teeth crouched up in the corner of the room. I’d bet you a lot she is regretting stopping and talking to me now, I’d bet she was regretting the whole situation right now. Those leaves and those trees couldn’t have helped her, no one could have, and certainly not now. I almost feel bad that she was so alone with me, and that no one or nothing heard her screaming for help. But that’s the funny thing with the world, no one is ever around when you need them the most. Everyone ends up completely alone and afraid.
“I don’t know.” She say’s, raising her voice.
I turn to look at her, her scrunched up little nose and train wreck of a mouth, quivering and drooping all over the show. “You don’t what?” I ask.
“Believe in God.” She says, stopping for a moment, her heart jamming into her throat,
“How could I now?”
I shrug, ruffling my hand through the back of my hair, “I dunno,” I say, “There’s still time I guess, for him to bust on in here”
“Would you give him the chance to?” she asks, flickering her eyes at me, her iris’s dark like a stethoscope.
“I guess not.” I answer, getting up off my iron spring bed, it makes a reluctant creak as I slide to my feet. My bare toes feel cold against the hard surface of the floor. I make my way over to the little sink that stands in one corner of the room, and twist the old iron tap, holding a dusty glass I had stolen from my Nan’s house under it. It makes a gurgling sound before spitting out mildly orange tinted water. I fill the glass to the top, watching the water overflow down the sides of the glass a few times before turning the tap off. The plughole makes a loud suctioning sound. I press the glass to my dry lips and take a deep drink, feeling the liquid crawl its way through my body.
“Water?” I ask her, wiping a stream of water off my upper lip, “It’s not the best tasting in the world,” I say, squinting up my left eye and peering into glass at the thin layer of grime built up at the bottom, “But ya know, water is water right?” I place the glass upside down in the sink.
“Some people would kill for this stuff,” I say studying my reflection in the cracked oval mirror – also stolen from my Nan’s house, “Third world countries and all that.” I loosen my red and yellow silk tie down my neck, “I think I’m starting to get cabin fever.” I say, stretching out the corner of my eyes with my fingertips, “Been couped up for too long can start to take it’s toll on you ya know.”
“What’s in the fridge?” she asks, looking over at the fridge I’d picked up from an inorganic collection, it didn’t work or anything, I just took it back with me to make this place look a little more homely, I kept my clothes in it. I stare at her through the reflection of the mirror, the waterline of her eyes glisten bright red.
“Body matter.” I say, watching her scrunch up her mouth in disgust, she looks like she is about to cry again. “I’m joking,” I say, “I’m not THAT sick.”
She falls silent again and doesn’t raise her voice again. I look back at myself in the mirror and begin to wonder how big the bath is and if she could fit into it comfortably without her legs hanging out the side, and if you need teeth in order to get into Heaven. I think about the red gummy remains that await her, and how the blood might drip into the bath itself. Would it stain? Does blood stain fibreglass? I think about her broken smile and how without teeth it would still appear beautiful. Smiles are just a big mind fuck anyway. To say the least, I more or less, don’t believe in them. That’s why in all my head shots I never smile, I’d rather not lie to the camera, the photographers all clap they’re hands and think I’m trying to look mysterious and brooding, I’m not, I’m just being honest. It’s like the saying, if you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all, it’s the same with smiling, don’t smile unless you actually have something to smile about, it’s just a waste of muscle movement, when your lying in a hospital bed unable to move or speak desperately trying to tell the nurses that your alive and not to turn off your life support your gonna wish you didn’t waste your mouth muscles on smiling.
My cellphone starts ringing; it vibrates uncomfortably loud against the windowsill. I stare at her through the mirror. She stares back at me, the vein in her forehead bulging. She could’ve made a mad dash for it but she didn’t. I pick it up and hold it to my ear, giving her a gesture through the mirror to be quiet,
“Hello?” I ask into the phone, darting my eyes back onto hers raising my right brow.
“Hi Damien, it’s Lesley,” a middle-aged woman’s voice answers.
I roll my eyes at Her, “Oh hey Lesley, what’s up?” I say, putting on my pretend professional persons voice. I see Her start to scan her eyes around the room, I can hear the clicking of her eyeballs moving in they’re sockets, I think she is looking for open windows, but she’s going to find that I’ve actually boarded them all up. I wonder if she’s going to try screaming for help.
“We were wondering if you would be interested in coming into the studio today,” Lesley says,
“We have a beautiful young girl coming from France, she’ll be here this afternoon, we were just thinking that we could take a few shots of you together.”
“Sure,” I say, watching Her throat move tightly against her skin as she gulped, her delicately brown painted nails tapped quietly on the floor, “What time should I be there?”
I watch her decide to open her mouth, her red gums coated in salvia. I study her carefully, examining every movement of every muscle in her body; I have a feeling she is going to start screaming. I diligently decide to move over to my bed, I listen to Lesley continuing to talk over the phone, I force a few “uh huh’s” and “mmm-hmmm’s” Lesley asks me if now is a bad time and if she should call back later, she really has no idea, I tell her now is fine to talk. Suddenly I hear a high-pitched wailing come from behind me, for a moment I don’t know what it is, I quickly realise that she has started screaming. I spin around and gesture crazily to her with my hands for her to be quiet, but she proceeds to get louder, that hideous ugly expression from earlier returning to her face.
“What was that?” Lesley asks me through the phone.
“Oh,” I say, quickly grabbing my pillow off the bed and slipping across the floor towards the screaming wreck, “I’m on the subway,” I say. I press the pillow hard over her face, muting the sound of her screams, “There’s like a baby crying, I really do wonder why parent’s have to bring they’re children everywhere with them, I mean what does a baby get out of going on a train?” She makes low sucking sounds from under the pillow kinda like the sound babies make when they suck on they’re own feet. I lean down onto her with my elbow as she tries to scratch at me with her nails, she gets in a good few hits “But anyway what were you saying?” Her fingers crawl they’re way up the side of my arm, making tiny intendments in my skin. I listen to Lesley yabber on some more, I roll my eyes again, knocking away the roaming fingers on my arm, she gives me one good scratch across my forearm in response, “AGhhhh!” I cry, watching the white shining line dot with blood, “It’s fucking bleeding.” I murmur, I press my whole body weight harder onto the pillow.
“What was that?” Lesley asks.
“Someone stood on my foot,” I say, frowning at the cut on my arm, it’s easy to underestimate the power of human nails. I feel her stop struggling from under the pillow and her hands fall away, “Look,” I say, concerned by the sudden lack of movement from under me, “I’ll be there in an hour, it’s getting really hard to hear you now.” Lesley tries to get a few more words in, she jams out a few addresses, office floors, what numbers to punch into the door in order to get in, I tell her “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” and hastily jam down the end call button and throw the phone onto the floor. It makes a loud smack as it makes contact. I breathe out loudly, feeling my lungs rattling against my ribcage. I pull the pillow off her face, her lips are purple, and are gaped open, her eyes are glassed over.
“Shit!” I curse, throwing the pillow to one side. She is dead already—I think. I paw my face with my fingers, goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it! Her veins glow and bulge through her skin like electrical wires. Her angel mop of hair is combed out at the sides like wings around her skull. The surface of her eyes shine out red. Imprinted in her pupils is my face. Mouth wide open, lips stretched out at all angles, telling me she sure isn’t in Heaven. I lean my face into my knees, rolling the skin of my forehead up in big folds. I’m almost in tears. This is what happens when things don’t go exactly according to plan. I kinda freak. I’m just a kid really, so can you blame me?
My date with the sledgehammer has come a little sooner then I had planned.
I edge myself forward onto my knees, angling my head over hers, I place my hands around her jaw, her skin still feeling warm. I gently move her jaw downwards, opening up her mouth a little wider. Her lab coat teeth reveal themselves completely to me, the perfect whiteness, the tiny bumpy dents, I forget all about feeling nervous and focus completely on holding the hammer in my grasps. I tilt my head backwards, taking her beauty in completely. I lift the hammer above my head, loving how natural it feels to hold it above my shoulders. I pause for a moment, to think about the redness of the leaves, the colours of the stained glass windows, and of her perfect little skull sitting so neatly. I swing.