Pain

Pain.

I knew you once. Knew your contours.

Understood your moods. Understood your power.

You were my pain. You didn’t own me at all.

Pain.

Now you control me.

Have me in tears.

Wrapped in the fetal position.

Wishing for morphine again.

Nothing will do for you.

No NSAID, homeopathic gel,

or non-opioid prescription pain medication.

You just laugh, and dig your claws deeper.

Into my eye socket. Into my cheek.

Into my jaw. Into my teeth.

Laughing as you travel to the right side

to have an empire of pain.

No relief

unless you will it.

Just to tease me.

To taunt me.

Then hit me

with all the power

your can have over me.

My pain owns me.

And I don’t know

if I’ll get my old pain back.

The one that didn’t own me.

mlm’s menagerie wordle #18: a cold mausoleum

wordle17

a cold mausoleum

The morgue was a cold mausoleum smelling of formaldehyde, ammonia, and death. Inspector Bronson and my footsteps echoed in the unholy silence.

Bronson continued his rant: “And, to trample all over the scene. Drape the body with a blanket someone gave them. To move the body. I have tried to drill into those thick heads that an expert, such as yourself, can be a sibyl, especially if things are left as they are.”

Bronson never used a sex for the dead. It was “the body,” until a name could be placed with the departed.

I took one last breath of the foul air, and passed into the mortuary. The once animated person, live with feelings and desires, lay stretched out on the slab. Bronson couldn’t say he or she. I couldn’t consider the body a cadaver, instead saw her as a wax figure from Madame Tussaud’s.

She was like the last ones, even thought having been moved. Her shiny ebony hair was perfectly quaffed. The lace about her neck unruffled. A fine gold chain hung down to her bosom and pearl bobbles adorned her ears. She still had the scent of an expensive perfume to match the manner of her hair and dress. Her clothes undisturbed, stylishly covering her arms and legs. Her face with modest makeup, her fingernails manicured and clean. Even a sweet, half smile seemed to be on her dead lips.

No outward signs of trauma. No blood, bruising, torn clothing. I asked the gentlemen present (Bronson and the impatiently tapping his feet Coroner), so I might examine her more closely.

After they left, I slowly unbuttoned the bodice of her dress. I explained each action, reassuring her it was to solve her death. Under her clothes was no disfigurement, not even a childhood scar on her knee. No signs that someone had invaded her person.

I dressed her again, knowing that soon the Coroner would invade her privacy. I had examined each garment. Read her body like a map. I was no Sibyl. All I could discern, Bronson could have done so himself.

She was an upper-class woman in her late twenties. No indication of engagement or wedding ring being placed on her finger. She was expensively dressed from the combs in her head to the leather shoes on her feet. There was nothing on her body to suggest anything else. No detritus from the storefront where she was found, no crumb, piece of thread, none of the usual bits and pieces found even on the most meticulous of people.

As Bronson escorted me home through the shadows created by the gaslights, we discussed visiting the site tomorrow. I only wanted slim details so I could first form my own opinion. As the scene had been disturbed, my interviews of those involved would have to be more probing. Let’s hope the “dunderheads” had better memories about what they saw than about police procedure upon discovering these bodies. The deaths were linked, and quite likely murders.

She was found by the constable on patrol, tilted against the front of a sandstone building occupied by exclusive women’s and gentlemen’s stores One of the number of things so far linking these women.

We reached the house where I rented rooms. Bronson doffed his derby, “Good night Miss Holmes, I’ll be around early tomorrow to fetch you.”

mindlovemisery’s menagerie photo Prompt: strings

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Artist: Kiyo Murakami

Strings.

Strings kept her in this world. Strings pulling to the next.

Strings wrapped her body; strings wrapped her soul.

Strings of memory; strings of pain.

Strings like jellyfish tentacles.

Strings holding kites between earth and sky.

Strings are for puppets; strings are for theory.

Strings that bind like family.

Strings that sing with the musician’s touch.

Strings are synapses between souls and cosmos.

Strings. That something so simple. So everyday.

Determine her life, our lives.

Tied up with a bow.