That woman is still yelling at me, but the volume has been turned down.
Covered in glass and blood, with the rain coming in through the man sized hole in the windscreen, and the radio singing at me, it’s really surreal. Then there are those fantastic chemical compounds that get released, the ones that dull critical thinking, that amplifying fight-or-flight reaction, it’s hard to assess.
Who knows what it is about dead people, but they look instantly different from the living type. Blood aside, which is everywhere, this guy’s eyes are the deadest thing about him. I want it out of my lap, but I don’t want to touch it.
Switching to Auto-pilot
When you kill some one’s boyfriend you should apologise, so that’s what I do, but she doesn’t seem to accept that, this chick drags me out of the car and starts hitting me, which is ok too, for a girl who’s boyfriend just got killed, decapitated no less.
She’s got me up against the car and she’s yelling, ‘ruined everything, you idiot.’
I’ve seen this movie. I have seen this movie a hundred times at the very least.
She’s walked off muttering to herself, and that is also acceptable for her character, we all need time to heal, need time to grieve. She looks like a movie star, with her tank top soaked and sucking at her body, she’ll pull in the guys.
In this place with the Ghost Gums shining out of the gloom and the sound of water breaking through the dark canopy above, all this is just a dream I can wake up from, it doesn’t have to be real. Coming soon are police cruiser lights, noise and stuffy interview rooms. Right now this is a peaceful place, but that’s not going to last. The same soothing rain also washes away the adrenaline, thins out the endorphins, letting the daemons back in.
‘Is he dead... completely?’ she says to me.
‘Well, have a look.’ I say.
As she leans in the radio tells her to “live life to the full, feminie hygiene can’t hold you back,” and that she should “Live free – with wings.”
But then she’s waving the empty bottle of scotch at me, and my first thought is: Yeah, it spilt, depressing, I know. But that’s not what she’s saying, it’s a threat that means, you’re totally fucked now, mate. And worse still, she reaches back into the car and comes up with a rifle; it has been shortened so now it’s only about two foot long, the stock and barrel expertly sawn off. I know that’s not mine, I don’t own a gun, mainly because they won’t give a gun licence to a person with a history of mental illness.
Distractedly she wonders away from me and away from the car, her hands full of evidence. She is discussing something, but not with me. Then she turns and says, ‘right, we have to get rid of the body, and the car’, and I can’t believe she just said that, I really have seen this movie too many times. Can I sit thought it again?
‘That your car?’
‘Registered in your name?’
Pause for effect.
You've seen enough L.A.P.D, enough Inspector Morse, Rosemary and Thyme and Dexter, enough C.S.I. set in enough American cities. In that situation, you'd force yourself to smash out the teeth, to burn the body. If it was a matter of survival, you'd do it... Right?