River's Voice
Volume 8, 2007
 
 
 


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But of Corpse You Can
Randy Navarette

As I wake up this morning, I find myself curiously draped in blood. Not my blood, mind you, but somebody’s blood. And as one should in a situation such as this, I’m determined to find out why and how such an odd thing has occurred. I mean, I’ve woken up covered in my share of odd substances—the occasional vomit, spittle, and some things I’ll leave out as not to reveal the perverse nature of my life and bias you, dear reader, against my current aforementioned situation.

So . . . where was I? The blood! Yes! Never seen so much blood. Never in all my days . . . curious, indeed.

Well . . . now that I think back . . . there was that one time—that time that seems so far away, so distant, yet so vivid it could have been yesterday.

But that time and this time can’t be related. I refuse to connect that moment with this one. The past is the past, and everyone’s past is filled with indiscretions. Some just a little bloodier than others, that’s all. Besides, I was young then, and now I’m a man. Grown. Changed. Repented.

I shower, watching the blood spiral rust-flavored down the drain. I rack my brain for any notion as to last night’s affairs. Drinking had to be involved. I figured this in from the harsh bile accented taste in the back of my throat. Memory . . .

A strange thing: when you try and remember is when you tend to block out the most. Or maybe there’s nothing to remember.

I hop out of the shower with the warm steam beckoning me back in, but I figure this is no time to be leisurely about life. I’m toweling myself dry, checking for any lesions. Maybe the source of the blood is me . . . but . . . no wounds.

I’m looking over the final spot on my body (my left foot), when something in my peripheral vision, a little ruby of a sparkle, catches my eye. I almost choose to ignore it, but we all know when it comes to curiosity being piqued there is nothing that can satisfy it like indulging in the very thing that has piqued the curiosity.

I peer down, seeing that the ruby is really crimson and that crimson is the start of a suspicious little trail leading out of the bed/bathroom area into what I assume to be the living room.

Follow the yellow brick road, I figure, or in this case the little red trail. The trail widens as I follow it like bread crumbs to, of all things, a corpse. A very shriveled and a very dead corpse. And oddly enough, the corpse, with its eyes staring dead at the ceiling and its mouth agape, is placed rather neatly on the coffee table, its extremities stretching back, barely touching the floor. A tiny amount of liquid

 
 


drips daintily out the base of his skull. Must be the source of the trail but more than likely not the source of the blood that I found myself painted with when I woke this morn. Strange and getting stranger.

I circle the corpse with a hand on my chin, lost in heavy contemplation. I’m thinking worse case scenario . . . maybe I killed this guy. This is my apartment. This is my apartment . . . right?

Larry, that’s the name that springs into my head for whatever reason as I wince down at the body. Well, Larry . . . if that’s your name, you look vaguely familiar, but I can’t place your face, can’t call it. Well, either way, Larry here is plopped on the table top like some bizarre cannibal’s idea of a snack tray. "Yeah, go head help yourself to some hors d’oeuvres. I’ll be back in a sec."

Must have been a wild party last night. Corpse on the coffee table, wake up in blood. Yeah! A helluva party, if you’re Richard Ramirez or some shit. I’m just me . . . me . . . who’s that? Good question.

I go to the kitchen and pour myself a drink, take a gulp or two, all the while peering over the top of the glass at the body. I can remember—

Buzz. It’s the intercom that signals the apartment from the lobby. Not good . . . a visitor? Here? Now? Right now? Damn! Damn! Damn! OK, composure . . . composure is the key. I gulp down the rest of my drink in one brave shot, hoping that the alcohol will give me a moment of insight into this growing problem of a situation. Another buzz. And another. Sounds urgent . . . shit . . . well, what else are you going to do? Well, hide the body for one. Stuff it in the oven.

No, the body’s too big. The bathtub, of course. Duh! I stop by at the intercom first to buy me some time. I figure it’s better to confront whoever it is now than have them sneak up on me. I jam the intercom button, hoping to God I ordered a pizza and don’t remember.

"Uh, hello?"

"Yes, Mr. Fisher. It’s detective Weston. We spoke briefly yesterday about your friend Larry—"

"Yeah, haven’t seen him. Sorry. Can’t help. Busy. Come back later. Call first." I release the button and slump down back against the wall.

"Mr. Fisher, are you there? You sound distressed. Do you need some help up there?"

I spin around, still on my knees, quickly pounding the button. Then calmly as possible, I say, "NO! No. Everything’s fine. I’m good. Better than good. Great. I’m great. A little tired is all—"

"OK, Mr. Fisher, but if you happen to see Larry, tell him to contact me or his family. They’re real worried about him, Mr. Fisher. Please tell him he may be in great danger. They’re real worried."

"I’m worried, too, detective. I’ll be on the lookout for him," I say, looking over my shoulder at the rapidly rotting corpse.

                                                                     (story continued in River's Voice, Vol. 8)