"The Repainted Devil, Part II" by Giovanni Dania

The Repainted Devil, Part II

A gentle breeze caressed the street,
Chalky grit expanded like slow-mo stock footage of H-bomb tests,
Mock-up Fair Deal houses exploding like toothpicks,
You get the idea.

The city was mine at night.

She, hapless, caught unawares,
Such surprise in her eyes as I swept her into the alley,
I could smell her fear,
I got drunk off it.

And the nasty serrated edge of my blade
Turned her soft, creamy skin into so many bloodied ribbons.
Confetti. In some dead language "carnival" means feast of flesh.

She was probably achingly pretty, before.
I couldn't tell; it was too dark.
She'd probably broken more hearts than any one person has a right to.
But, then again,
She might have had someone waiting at home for her,
Someone waiting for the ice cream in the bag she was carrying,
The ice cream that's melting now in that alley.
I chanced to taste it, silently invoking the five-second rule:
Butter pecan.

I left her there; it's not my job to clean her up:
I already did my part.
The gentle breeze massaged my scalp
As I sat poised as a gargoyle on an anonymous rooftop.

The city was mine at night.

July 14, 2003