Like a Polaroid photographMature




I regret choosing Singapore noodles now. The chili made me gag and although I'm grateful the smells are still covering the scent of Maxxie's blood, it's doing my head in. It's nearly the middle of the day and I still haven't slept. Apart from my body clock not being right for a nocturnal life, my senses aren't helping me sleep.

Those on top of my thoughts, of course. They're rumbling around in the back of my head, like a thunder storm roaring to be heard. Angelina is at the fore of this storm inside my head, her face is the only thing I see, despite the fact I'm staring at the nicotine stained ceiling.

Her face floats on the surface of my thoughts, making me think, for some strange reason, of a lost Polaroid photograph, hovering on the skin of an endless expanse of water. Already the photograph is smeared and damaged and half forgotten, but I can still recognize the face.

I pick the photograph up and take in her distant eyes, her expression peaceful with a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. I put a finger to those lips, stained deep red with her favorite lipstick, that color that I could never resist.

Her smile turns to me as I tilt he photo slightly in my hand, holding it at arm's length now. I just gaze at it, transfixed by the life captured in the picture.

When I finally lower it, I see Angelina stood opposite me, that same smile on her face, the look in her eyes mirroring that of the photo. She looks so close, but when I reach out to touch her, she's suddenly in the distance.

She's wearing a thin white cotton dress, the kind she would wear in the summer when it was too hot for even a loose shirt and shorts. The material ripples across her skin in a light breeze that only she can feel, caressing her curves; it clings to her one moment and falls loose again the next, billowing gently in a mesmerizing fashion. I'm almost transfixed again and she laughs, breaking the spell as she turns, flashing me that winning smile that strikes me down inside.

I'm still standing, though, and it's only as she dances towards me across that grey water that I realize that neither of us should be here at all. We're not supposed to be on the water - it's not right. I can't move though. I'm still watching as she pirouettes before me, a flash of beautiful ebony and bright white.

Finally, she reaches me and I can touch her at last, one hand on her hip, one in the small of her back, holding her close as she leans in to kiss me. I hungrily oblige, bending to her will instantly. I breathe her in, my senses brought to life in these dead waters.

I savor the scent of her strawberry shampooed hair, the feel of her body in my hands, the sight of her coffee skin and trusting chocolate eyes, the sound of her breaths and the slight whisper of her dress as it continues to move in the ethereal breeze that seems to miss me altogether.

I savor the taste of her blood in my mouth as I break the skin on her neck.


At that point, my eyes snap open and I can hear my heart thudding in my chest loudly, it's slow, laborious beat pounding in my ears as I remind myself that it wasn't me that killed Angelina.

But I can't quite shake that image of her, the feeling of her limp body in my hands as I drained her dry.

I shudder and push myself up, so I'm sitting staring at last night's Chinese, the foil boxes scattered across the coffee table. Glaring at the Singapore noodles, I pick up the lemon chicken leftovers, trying to get rid of the imagined taste of blood.

The End

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