Last Link to Home

The cool metal slipped beneath their nail, the movement across the underbelly skin causing their spine to straighten with each piece of chain.

"I wonder if he's with a girl right now."

They titled their head, pulling the chain taunt, so that small heart charm tugged against the side of their thumb.

"He's dead, you sorry excuse for rotting meat."

Tugging the chain once more, they bit their lip, shaking their head lightly.

"Stop it! You're going to break your skin."

Releasing the chain, they lifted the necklace to their eye level. The release was rusted, but they knew the picture held inside the tiny organ. They could still taste the salt on their lips, the way he always had to hold the camera because their arms weren't long enough for a good shot. They wanted the whole Ferris Wheel AND sunset behind them. They refused to set for less. Their perfect picture. Stuck now in it's casing.

They stood, walking to the window, still holding the necklace to their face. In the darkness, they could make out shapes. Rustling, slithering, changing. The window remained intact, as did they as long as the rusted frame held the glass in place. No sunset, no Ferris Wheel, no one with long enough arms to capture the pretty scene.

"Fucking moping, again. Moping doesn't keep you fed you know."

Their stomach gurgled, the sound seeming entirely too loud, almost making the window feel thin. Something smacked against it, wet and leaving a trail as it slid down. They turned, reclaiming their seat on the edge of the couch, the necklace settling against their thigh.

"That wasn't an invitation to consider."

They watched the smudge on the window, wrapping the chain around their fingers. Forty-three loops around, the heart connected to the twenty-sixth. Another thunk to the window, the smudge grew. Forty-three loops around, the heart connected to the twenty-sixth, the clasp nestled between the thirty-fourth and thirty-fifth. The sun was due to be up.

"I wish you would get up. I wish you would eat. I wish you would do anything other than sit there drag that thing around."

They pulled their sight from the smudge on the window, from the forms making the marks, resting on their reflection. The sun was not coming up.

The chain was pulling against their knuckles, circling their skin. Their skin was once their own commodity, they showed it, flashed it, made it available. It had won them this small treasure, this path from couch to window. They stood, their toes pressing into the wood as they rocked forward.

"A few days ago, you maybe would have a had a chance but now..."

The wood squealed, the sharp, soft noises echoing what had greeted them for hours the first night. Noises loud enough to cause concern but far enough way to warrant not getting up out of bed. They always remembered to lock the doors. They always remembered to close their necklace.

"But now, I almost wish you would just walk out there."

The window had taken it's beating for the night. It was difficult to tell what was decorating it, but they could imagine. It was thick, it left a trail. The chain slipped back under their nail. They walked back to the couch.

"I'm tired of this."

They felt their lips press back together. No taste of salt. Barely damp, their tongue rested against the back of their teeth. The heart stopped against their thumb, the chain stretched tight. Tilting their head, they let the smudge on the window separate their face into halves.

"You're not snapping out of this."

They watched their mouth close, feeling their tongue scrape against the bottom of their teeth as their canine connected. Their lips found each other again. Raising the heart, they pressed it against their mouth before dropping their hands to their thighs. There would be no tears, those had come night one, between the twenty-sixth loop and the thirty-third loop. There would be no screaming. That came morning two, between the thirteenth loop and the fifteenth loop, quickly finished as the window rattled. There would be no gurgling, no coughing, no moaning. Each loop had been clutched, pinched between thumb and forefinger until the pads of their fingers built a home for it.

"It's probably for the best."