Sex and Murder Magazine

By Shennandoah Diaz

I've never seen so much blood. It covered the walls, the chair, even the cat like some sick art project gone wrong. It was a bit surreal, a bit Dali in how the crimson liquid seemed to corrupt everything like a strange dream. I couldn't be sure if it were all mine or if some of it came from another source. Either way, there was just too much.

The cat had stopped to lick the open wound on my cheek. I watched her tiny paw prints move like a well inked stamp across the Burberry carpet and onto the newly polished wood floors of the kitchen.

I had been looking forward to a quiet evening-alone. The past several weeks had been filled with a torrid array of overly dramatic fights and poorly ended phone calls. No one ever said breaking up was easy, but no one ever dated Tom Phelps.

He was dark, gorgeous, and hard in all the right places. He had those stop-a-heart- in-its-tracks thick eyelashes that seemed to beckon you forward against your will. His lips were a skillful duo and could make my body sing like a finely tuned piano. We could make the sweetest music wrapped tightly beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets that, for weeks, were rarely ever completely on the bed.

His charm faded, though, and the blazing heat of passion was soon challenged by a volcanic fury that would explode from out of nowhere and coat everything around it with a stifling blanket of smoldering ash. It was impossible to predict the catalyst of his ire. Sometimes it would be just a simple gesture or a misplaced sigh, other times it was a word or phrase so benign that even Atilla the Hun wouldn't bat an eye. There was never any warning, no swirling clouds or gentle rumbling thunder to herald the approaching storm. It would come like a blitzkrieg from left field and leave in its wake the poor and bloody carcasses of anyone stupid enough to stand in its way.

Despite the body and amazing sex, I decided that enough was enough. There wasn't an orgasm strong enough or long enough to forgive a man who could tear asunder everything one had ever built simply because he was predisposed to an illogical temper. I was running out of dishes and had already paid to have the front door fixed twice. My pocketbook and my heart couldn't take anymore.

That night, I had resigned myself to an evening of Nora Ephron films and chocolate ice cream. I was comfortably wrapped within the delicious fabric of a well worn pair of sweats, the glass of wine was poured, and the first movie put into play when I heard the loud bang on the door. I knew very well who it was and opened the door prepared for a quick dismissal. He had other things in mind.

I barely registered impact before all air was forced mercilessly from my lungs. The hard floor broke my fall and a couple of ribs along with it. At first, each blow registered as a distinct and separate event, but soon the pain became a massive sensation resonating over every inch of my body. The unseen rage that possessed him propelled his fists to the point that even after I stopped fighting he kept hitting.

The cat has disappeared through the small door carved specifically for her. Tom is nowhere in sight. A slow, creeping, numb feeling had worked its way from my extremities toward my chest. All motor function has been lost and the dark tendrils of unconsciousness are beginning to cloud the outskirts of my mind. Only one thought remains as the last bit of life slips away.

I've never seen so much blood.







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