“I need your help, just this one thing and then I won’t try to talk to you anymore.”
“How did you kill him?” John Wilson asked, sprawled out on the couch in a spiderly matter, his limbs running over the sides due to their length and twisted behavior.
“His chest.” Margret replied.
“With what, a knife, a fingernail, teeth?” He asked again, running his fingers tightly twined with white string, over his slimy teeth.
“Don’t be daft, you know it was my wing.” She said taking a deep breath, the incenses floating around the murky room inflating her lungs.
“Yes those precious boned wings, that cling to the sides of walls like overgrown tree branches.”
“Mother never thought they were any good.” She said, gently touched the end of the spear like tip, hued with red.
“Oh Margret, Margret, Margret, you’re in some trouble aren’t you Margaret Jones.” John scratchley, sung under the dark shadow looming over his face, created by a tall top hat sitting on top of his head, like a crippling tower about to lose all its stones.
“That’s why I am here, I need your help, not much, just some help carrying the body, hiding it in the ocean or a hollowed out tree.”
“When was this, how exactly did you get yourself into this unplanned homicidal mess?”
“It was after my performance.” She began. “You know the one with the white leotard and shoes?”
“No.” He said sitting up to listen, his tall back still curved over.
“I hang from the top of the tent, by white ribbons, wrapped around my wrists, and wings. I dance as though I were a bird.”
“Yes, yes the one where your ribs stick as far out as your wings.”
“That’s not the point…”
“It’s part of the whole splendor of sights isnt it? You know, if you don’t want people to notice them, gain some much needed weight.” John said running his fingers over her poked out ribs, as though they were a string instrument. She tried to grab his hands to potentially bite them off, but he pulled them back before she could get a grip on them.
“You can do it yourself, you’re more capable than you think. It’s as easy as one of your 50 doo-wop tunes.”
“You know I don’t have the capacity to get rid of a two hundred pound dead body.”
“No.” He said nearly cutting her off.
“No, I will not help you, I don’t owe anything to you. All you are is a fallen angel. God plucked out all the feathers from your wings so you wouldn’t be able to fly away from hell.”
“That’s a load of nonsensical rubbish!” She yelled at him. “What about our baby? Even if you don’t love me, you loved that baby. You owe something to that!”
“Leave me be.” He groaned, crippling over.
“No! We buried it together, in the flower pot by the wind chimes hanging from my window. You placed the broken porcelain face of you first puppet on it, to hide its red strung body under the shiny glass. Then you acted as though I didn’t exist. And now you say you don’t owe me anything? Damn you to hell.” Margaret said crying, now holding her fists down at her skinny sides.
John unexpectedly launched forward like a spider monkey, so their two noses brushed against one another, and their eyes locked in the same current. “No matter what you think….” John whispered gratingly in her ear. “I’m not like my puppets, I don’t get attached. Those strings were cut the day my father died in that bloody war, and again when that thing in your body withered away because you wouldn’t feed it.”
“You fill your head with stories and dark endings.”
“I’m not lying, your body was too shrunk down to be able to hold two souls.”
She looked at him and her eyes were completely black, her corneas camouflaged into the background and the orange ring that wrapped them drifted away, but he could still see the pain in them, and he felt a spark of regret.
“Please help me.” She cried. “If you do, you can keep the thought of me and the baby behind the back of your eyes. So you don’t see us anymore, so it’s nearly impossible that I will stumble back to your sights. Repay this debt, and I’ll leave you be.” She asked again, trying her best to look him in the eyes, without crying more black tears.
He felt sorry, and he hated himself for it. He touched her cheek gently as to not startle her, and felt her sharp cheek and jaw beneath his cracking fingers. “Now tell me, where’s the body?”
“You’re going to help me?” She said surprised, letting her face sink and stab into his hand.
He ignored the question and stood up suddenly grabbing his large black coat from a hanger. “Let’s go then shall we, and get the bloody bastard into the ocean.”
The two exited the caravan into the dark night that was dressed with the smell of smoke and old decaying food, they passed by many peculiar folk sitting around fires. Clowns who never took their greasy makeup off, ladies with no legs and corsets stabbing into their sides, tiny men with large bowl hats and ties, and a young boy eating a live chicken getting the light blood all over his blue pajama bottoms. Margret lead John to the back of the red and white candy-cane tent. Where the body of a extremely fat man laid with a giant purple and red hole oozing in the middle of his chest.
“Look at this! My dear you really killed him didn’t you, I never expected anything like this from a feeble handed teenager.” He said closely inspecting the rancid hole, his voice resembling that of a man on the radio show from the 20’s.
“Would you please keep your voice down.” She said in a soft tone, folding her arms together into a pout.
John pulled a razor knife from his pocket and began to cut down on the skin holding the arm and shoulder together, making the ligaments squirt blood.
“Stop! What are you doing?” Margaret said turning around covering her eyes.
“He obviously has too much weight to carry all together, we’ll have to seperate him.”
“Well do you want the body gone or not.” He said, going back to saw the arm off, the sounds of the ripping skin resembling those of a zipper. Margaret began to dry heave, so John sent her into the fields behind the circus tents to collect flowers. When she returned with a collection of white, wild roses in her hands, both of the man’s arms were gone, and one of his legs. There was blood everywhere, sunk into the dirt making the ground sticky.
“I got the flowers.” Margaret said.
John looked up at her and wiped his hand across his face, creating a smear of sweaty blood above his brow. She walked over with tiptoed feet as to not step on a giant severed arm or leg. She placed the collection of flowers into the hollowed out hole in the man’s chest. The two stared at the seemingly still photograph, at the beauty and the grimy horror.
“I could really use your help.” John finally spoke up, from his daze.
“What, why?” She asked suspiciously, already knowing what he was going to say next.
“I need your boned wings, they’re the sharpest thing we’ve got, and this knife is not properly cutting through the bone, and it’s taking far too long we’ll be caught if we don’t hurry.”
“You don’t have to watch, I’ll controll them for you. I’m good at that. I’m a puppeteer after all, I pull people’s strings. I make them do as I want by twirling my fingers and mimicking their voices.”
“Fine.” She said breathless.
“Close your eyes and turn away.” He said putting his blood dripping fingers up to her eyes, covering them. Margaret felt the slimy stickiness of the liquid that reminded her so much of red wine, drip down onto her cheeks, and pale bony shoulders. The dry, sharp salt taste of the blood collected around her white lips painting them the color of proper roses. Margaret’s back twisted, hooked, and pulled against her control. As though John had possessed her like an evil spirit and was making her dependant against his will, she had been created and manipulated into one his many puppets. Sounds of scraping muscle, and flesh leaking out red, filled her ears. Grinding bones wielded each other down into sore cuts and dents, until the man’s leg snapped and became a chime.