I Am SolaceJeffrey N. Johnson
Her wrist gushed red, a selfish fountain. "Look at me," she said.
In return, I applied a tourniquet to my arm and tightened.
"I had to," she said. "You don't understand." She turned away to make her Hindenburg plans.
I touched her shoulder, and she winced in rage and severed a leg.
I cut off mine, from the feeble knee down, and tenderly attached it to her stump. What is my blood type, I wondered. Wouldn't it be nice if we were the same.
"Is that the best you can do?" she said. Then, like a bird shot from flight, she paled, squirmed pitiably and died.
I laid down beside her, bent over her. My arm gangrene, leg stump twitching, spittle of saliva reaching toward her.
I miss her.
Copyright ©2004 Jeffrey N. Johnson. All Rights Reserved.
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