Love of the Masses

Love Of The Masses

The girl fell, almost in slow motion, her head wrenched sideways, her fine black hair disheveled, matted, blood-stained. Her eyes were still, almost serene, as she fell. They had a far-away look to them, a look of finality, closure perhaps. She shut them just before she hit the ground. She didn’t move again.

I stood before her, that poor soul, that wretched creature, rent from the inside-out by some vicious, invisible horror. She’d been very pretty. Perhaps that was her mother over there in the fountain, or her father under the blanket on the lawn.

I dropped the stick, just let it go, aware of the infected blood on my face, the coppery taste of it in my mouth.

In a daze, I shambled over to the stream and splashed some water on my face. I don’t know why. A futile thing. Probably the last futile thing I’d ever do. I sat there for a while and just stared at my hands. A dead koi floated by, tail first, riddled with abscesses. A splendid, gorgeous creature in life. No more. Whatever this disease was, it was in me now. I could feel it breeding, chewing on my cells. Making babies.

So this is how it ends. Have at it, you bastards.