A MERMAID”S TALE

There is only a scarred wooden desk and an upright plastic chair in the room. On the desk are pieces of paper, some are scattered and torn, others form part of a spiral note pad, folded over. Most of the paper is covered in writing, marked, the  mark of Cain furrows his forehead, the written word, a language of symbols, lines drawn in black, a picture of something, not a flower or a bird, an abstract drawing, unreal, false, human. To the left of the desk is a window, opaque bars of black metal cut through the glass. He picks up a pen, draws a few more highlights, a beam from the outside glows blue in the twilight; a waxing moonlight traces the contours of the bars, obfuscation. The light in the room is not turned on, it is not yet dark enough, the unlit globe casts a moon shadow on the wall in front of him, as he turns he catches its reflection, it dances in the windowpane, mocking. He bends his head to look at the pages on which are his words, a tawny insect walks across one of them; it drags its right back leg, wings folded down, a shroud stains the white paper. He places his palm on the insect and squashes it flat, dirt on the page, another word, another picture, greeny yellow oozes. Outside the window, about two meters from where he sits, a half naked figure lies on a concrete bench, it does not move as he looks out at it. Another figure crosses the yard and moves towards the sleeping form. The moving figure stops, it too is still, he looks, a pen hovers in the air as if he is holding it, an invisible string guides it downwards towards the page, a puppet. The figure that lies on the bench sleeps; the silent form above it looks, as he looks, at the theatre of death. The bars of the window move in, enclose the standing figure, frame it, then cover the face, a line across the eyes, a black line, disguised, nameless. The hand that holds the pen lingers, the hand above the figure is raised, its fingers curl, rigid, then it straightens and moves towards the pocket of a worn shirt, bright green, verdant, bisected through with sharp lined trees, thorn trees, not zebra lines or lines on silk pyjamas, just thin thorns made of silver, fish hooks. The hand shifts into the pocket, a long blade is drawn, written, the prone form is still, the knife moves silently, slowly, into a heart. He watches the body shudder upwards, a light movement, the skin is caught in the wind, it breathes, breathless. Then the figure walks away. The sleeping body lies on the concrete bench, it does not move, it appears as if it is dead, liquid seeps, it wells upwards, then it drops, a finger pricked by a needle, a tear that flows from an eye. A blood spot drops onto the concrete floor, it splatters, a Rorschach test, then another and another. Even in the half light he can make out the picture that the spots cause, so near, a picture of a little mermaid, her tail flips, then it flaps, then it is still. Legs grow from the tail and begin to walk towards him but he can not see them now, it is too dark and the bars of the window bisect his vision; first there are three legs now there are two, two words on an empty white page.