The Rose Garden

The asphalt rolled under bare knees, the chopper rumbling underneath her. The helmet did little to stop her hair from flipping in 65 mile per hour gusts. Hearing only the guitar riff in her helmet, she distanced herself from the desert environment around her. Passing sonora cacti. Abandoned shacks. An occasional hill scorched with splintery shrub fingers.

When she thought of him, she accelerated. Each mile passed was a mile away.

Even in the blasted landscape around, she could only see the lush garden in her mind’s eye. His pissed off expression. How anyone could be pissed off in a rose garden amidst multi-colored blossoms, was beyond her. And she told him that.

“I’m fine,” was all he said.

So she asked him again, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I said I’m fine.”

It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t tell her that in the outdoor freezer was the still freezing remains of her sister, just waiting to be discovered. He hadn’t expected her to check–she was supposed to be gone that night.
Feet. Remains. Hair. Packed in inhuman ways, like a brick of frozen flesh.

She didn’t scream. There was no reaction whatsoever. The horror put her in a transcendental meditative state. She was a fluffy cloud floating somewhere above her physical head. Her rational mind was completely detached and so it puzzled its way through it. They were fucking. She wanted to tell her, so he killed her. Chopped her up. Put her in a freezer.

Her rational mind also knew what was next. Her rational mind watched her grab the chef’s knife from the kitchen and stab the motherfucker in the chest as he slept. Her rational mind was surprised that the knife was stuck and couldn’t easily be pulled out and that he, instead of dying from the blow, erupted in pain and anger, thrashing her across the face with his arm.

He looked down, confusion wrenching his angered face, and tried to get at the knife, but she must have collapsed a lung, because he stumbled back, falling onto the bed again.

Putting her knee on his chest she yanked the blade out and stabbed him again, cutting her own hand in the process. She pulled out and struck again.

Her rational mind knew this was murder. So after he stopped struggling and passed the last of his breath, she took his motorcycle.

By the time Arizona came, the sun was up. And by the time the sun set, she saw Mexico. And when the sun was up again, her rational mind descended back into her body and she fell apart.

By Christopher Grey

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