“You’re vile,” I said.
“You are vile.”
“You’re vile,” I said.
“You are vile.”
“You stole my husband,” I said
“You stole my wife.”
“You stole my happiness.”
“You stole my life.”
“I hate you so much.”
“I hate you more.”
“It is eating me up, what you did.”
“Well, at least there is some good news coming out of this.”
“On which to dwell.”
“On which to dwell.” He spat the 'd', I wasn’t sure that was possible.
“You are vile!” I said.
“Absolutely hideous!” he said.
“Stay out of the rain or you will melt, today.”
“I am dead!” he said.
“You're still talking?”
“I can talk in death,” he held his hands out as if in a question. “2000 years of Christian dogma gave us that.”
“Good to hear,” I said. “Was it a painful death? I do hope it was painful!”
“The most painful death imaginable!”
“Lovely. That cheers me up no end,” I said. “Did you scream? Did nobody come to help you? Were you ignored and alone as you took your last breath?”
“Yes... with the lambs,” he said. “And there was no one, darling... No one ....”
“Just the silence into which you screamed for mercy... and the bleating of the lambs.”
“Yes,” he said. “That's all there was in the end, the bleating of the lambs.”
“It paints a lovely picture...”
“Dark green, echoing across the deserted, wide, flat land.”
“Midnight green,” I said. “With the moon reflecting on your misery.”
“The foxes would come in no time, sniffing at the cold, stiff corpse, chewing out the neck.
“And the birds?” I asked.
“Yes, the birds would come with sunrise, pulling at the larynx, supper on the oesophagus, pecking at the spine that would soon be exposed.”
"Pecking out the eyes,” I said.
“Like oysters.”
“Picking at the bones in the midday sun,” I said.
“Wah, wah! Wah, wah! Wah, wah!” He waved his arms as if they were wings as he squawked. Squatting on his haunches and for a moment, I thought he may have taken off, like the birds, entrails hanging from their beaks.
“Until you leached back into the soil,” I said. “Dissolving bit, by bit, by bit, until becoming just a stain on the grass.”
“A human stain.”
“A human stain,” I said.
“Bits of skin and fragments of bone.”
“Scattering in the wind.”
“Scattering my bones in the wind,” he said. “Scattering my bones in the wind.”
“Until there was nothing left.
“Just fragments, broken fragments.”
“And your vile life was over,” I said.
“All but the scratching, all but the scratching.”
“Under the light of the moon.”
“The silvery light of the full moon.”
“And the bleating of the lambs,” I said.
“Those god damn lambs.”
