
She peels back the plastic and gets out of the water, a little clumsy with her limbs not moving right and her blue-black blood slow shot through them. She hasn’t even opened her eyes yet, they’ve been closed that long she has to pry them with thick fingers, prop them open a while, practice her blinks. Her eyes see well, and if there were anyone here, they’d see eyes of a glorious brightness, clear like something raised on fish and chilled glacial water. God, she needs a cigarette. Clothes first.
She climbs out of the TV into an unoccupied room with a battered tartan sofa covered in pillows, a TV table sprawled with sweet wrappers and old bills. She leaves the room for the hall, for the bathroom and a big old towel for her body and one for her blonde hair. She should probably take a shower and rinse it clean of scum from the lake, but you can have enough contact with water, you know? In the little bedroom she finds a drawer full of plaid shirts and another with sweats. She gets into the clothes and, if she can’t really feel warm, being dead, she at least feels something new, more going on than ‘body’, ‘dead’, ‘girl’.
The dead girl makes herself a coffee in the wood-panelled kitchenette and stirs four teaspoons of sugar in, plus cream, and it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted and she licks the lid of the cream pot before putting it back on. There’s a packet of cigarettes on the table under a cable bill, but it’s not a brand she likes and there’s no lighter. Well, whatever. She lights it on the stove and comes back to the sofa with her coffee and her smoke.
What’s on the TV? Two detectives in a car, two men, eloquently snarling at each other. Countryside rolls past, low and humid and green, like a summer dying from oversaturation, or it’s a City-side bleak in February. Her death is always about things other than her death. The girl puffs on her cigarette, slurps her coffee. Not long now. She mashes the butt on the table. There’s the sugarcane field. There’s the alley. She gets out of her clothes. Always naked. She flicks her hair back from her eyes. Takes a drag and holds her breath, which she can hold forever. Back into the TV. Here’s nothing but a wide desolate space, green or stony. She picks her way shoeless across the ground, arms bound at her back. Against her throat a delicate bruise. He’s killed her already, so at least there’s that. And there’s the spot where she’s been left, right up against that tree. Right behind that wall. There’s the spot where she’ll be found.
Car engine in the distance. Those men, talking already. They don’t ever shut up. She lies down and faces the sky, letting out one last long mouthful of smoke.
Helen McClory is a writer from Scotland. All her flash and longer fiction is this strange and concerned with the inner lives of girls, dead or otherwise.
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caragreenham 111p · 577 weeks ago
anachronistique 115p · 577 weeks ago
tjdubya 93p · 577 weeks ago
wallofillusion 127p · 577 weeks ago
Wow.
ArsenioB_Ham 125p · 577 weeks ago
(This? "[S]he licks the lid of the cream pot before putting it back on"? This reached me on a primal, bone-shuddering level. NO MORE CREAM FOR ME, THANKS.)
malloryelis 142p · 577 weeks ago
NicoleCliffe 145p · 577 weeks ago
littlehuntingcreek 135p · 577 weeks ago
malloryelis 142p · 577 weeks ago
literaltrousersnake · 577 weeks ago
tjdubya 93p · 577 weeks ago
thelyesmith 107p · 577 weeks ago
quietest 107p · 577 weeks ago
CurrerBelle · 577 weeks ago
Does it go without saying that my favorite part of this piece is how, in this fictional show, an otherwise ambiguous-nude-female-as-prop-character suddenly gets a voice and personality and a preference for cream and sugar in her coffee? Perhaps, but this was lovely, and I wanted to stop by to say so.
anninyn 124p · 577 weeks ago
Wow.
I loved this so much. PLEASE publish more like this.
littlehuntingcreek 135p · 577 weeks ago
Arnon Clark · 577 weeks ago
NicoleCliffe 145p · 577 weeks ago
ehmgeebee 122p · 577 weeks ago
Emm · 577 weeks ago
thebellewitch 122p · 577 weeks ago
Tangential, but since the movie's coming out this weekend - About the only show where I can stomach the beautiful dead girl plot device is Veronica Mars. Because Lily is a person (and she gets to take her own breaks from being dead to be a hallucination sometimes). Also maybe because Veronica is not two male detectives.
moxycrimefighter · 577 weeks ago
Alison · 577 weeks ago
Thank you for this!
Abanthis 108p · 577 weeks ago
elsamac 121p · 577 weeks ago
mirandawmeyer 110p · 577 weeks ago
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