The Corpse Found on Languid Lane

A jar of jam rested, the lid upturned; half of a loaf of sourdough flakes before the sunlight peered through the glass pane like a voyeur. The gelatinous glucose purée of wild strawberries clung to the glass but left behind a faint trail of rose, resembling the lens of a pair of lunettes. A spoon lay on the eggshell counter; blood pools in the concave shape. A saucer lay beside with the crust of freshly cut bread atop, hanging off the edge with a half-moon impression.

Hanging from the window was the soft web work of a cellar spider. Dust clung to the wispy, almost transparent trails that hung, like flowing curtains of silk caught in the breeze. Below the littered lacework, the corpses of drones lay contorted, crumpled like a child’s discarded artwork. The mother gazed over the valley of monsters; its marble peaks resembled the white caps of the Rocky Mountains in the dry, arid corner of the window.

Drips slip from the calcified spout of a kitchen sink, splashing droplets from the ceramic bowls inside onto the checkerboard tile floor. In their peaks, every once in a while, they clung like mist against porous flesh. At the base of a cabinet, a corpse lay, its head obscured by the folding door, as if taking a saccharine siesta after its feast. Crumbs were scattered on the floor from the corpse’s hand, along with amorphous boluses, perhaps, of fruit purée or clotted ichor.

Its cerulean jean covers were drenched in rouge, crusting over into a deep maroon that, in the peering light, resembled coffee stains that might take decades to scrub out. The stains migrated, enveloping every patch of fabric and thread. On the floor, blood escaped like frightened children away from the corpse’s garments, slippery and wet as the liquid scattered across. Once it reached the grout, which was caked in dirt and detritus, it soaked in before ever-flowing again, farther away from its origin.

Across the chessboard, the indiscriminate flowing kissed the hard-rubber soles of the corpse’s shoes, as not even a twitch erupted, while the flowing clung to its hands’ pale flesh. The languid liquid spread like wildfire, covering the floor in dusk. The kitchen was occasionally painted gray as the looming clouds above obscured the sun. The chrysanthemum in the sky had passed its peak and was stretching toward the horizon; evening was upon the lane.

It was evident once the flow ceased that the corpse was now nude inside the vessel, drained as if present on a mortician’s embalming table, ready to be filled once again with frigid fluid, deep-ocean blue as the blood of a horseshoe crab. The pale light shone through only to kiss the delicate features of the corpse’s flesh, illuminating their sunken eyes, brushed with dark spots as if they had some difficulty putting on eyeshadow, while their lengthy fingers were as thin as chicken bones; the joints bulged and had become swollen as if the gout had stricken their fingers, instead of their unsightly toes.

The flashing of red and blue did not scream through the trees and wood-panel houses that night. The corpse’s strings had been cut; it now remained free to rot on the floor for the flies to lay their eggs. Their offspring will devour the remains of their flesh and muscle tissues, only to leave behind the structure, the bones of the departed soul, in the kitchen as the cellar spider waits patiently for their next meal to arrive in due time.