Suicide Couch

Apartment.

The landlord says, "Beautiful girl. Most women don't use guns to kill themselves."

 Photo of the girl on the coffee table with her boyfriend. Beautiful girl.

The landlord and I move the suicide couch into the dumpster. It is covered the blood and bits of brain and bone and hair.

We wear rubber gloves, but I can feel this girl's face through them.

I look down and see her ghost on the couch. She looks up at me, expressionless.

Home.

I can't seem to get her off my hands. Beautiful girl. She is there on my couch, her ghost. There. Transparent. Expressionless.

I wash my hands with dish soap. A tiny soap bubble pops up from the bottle. I imagine her face reflected in the bubble. My eyes close. Bubbles float about my imagination, her face in each.

I strip, then shower.

Nothing gets the feel of her out of my skin.

I look out through the shower curtain. I see her face in my steamy mirror.

After the shower, I dress in a pair of shorts. With a mop handle I pick up the clothing I wore when I moved the couch. I slip the clothing in the bathroom garbage. I pick up the can.

As I pass the couch on my way outside, her ghost is still there.

I slide open the door to my back patio.

Outside.

There is no grass. The only sign that I am living here are ashes in the barbecue. I dump the contents of the garbage can on the ground. I light a match and hold it to some toilet paper so I can burn the clothing. As I wait for the flames to catch, I see her behind the sheer curtains, standing. She smiles. Finally she smiles.

I turn to see my work. The fire has gone out. There are no flames, just a tiny patch of sparks spreading out over a sheet of toilet paper.

Fire. I need fire.

My mind turns slowly. Very s-l-o-w-l-y. Charcoal starter. It is near the back door. She smiles at me from behind the curtains as I retrieve it.

I spray the starter fluid onto the clothing. The can leaks onto my hands. I smell the fumes.

I imagine what it must have been like for her when she fired the gun.

I close my eyes. I strike a match. A spark catches my hands on fire. In my mind I see the flames that entered her when she fired.

I drop the match.

The clothing starts to flame.

I turn to look at her, my hands still aflame.

She smiles at me from the window.

Such a beautiful girl.

I hold up my hands. They are burning now, but the flames are dying away.

She turns away from my window. I see her behind the curtains as she takes her place on the couch. Then she disappears.

Such a beautiful girl.