Shock and Aphonia

Reaper grim. Him again.
Scratched her mind, 78 rpm.
Dead wax, matrix grooved.
Silent spin. Slowly moved.

She knew Ben was speaking,
but she couldn’t hear.
Was he rubbing her back?
She felt nothing, no tear.
She saw his eyes searching hers for the tell. All she could do was turn off her cell.
Then...

    "Finn is dead."

she thought she said
her brain fraught,
fought thought

    “I’ll never again see, my forever Plan B.”

head spinning right round like a record
baby, does shock well
can't you tell?
in fear
sans beer
mind clear
loaded shot
sharp shocked
full on cocked
automatic glocked
tic
tic
tic
tocked
body revolt alarm clock

     "A bathroom in sight, on the right.

she took flight
steady paced
she graced
the hall
braced the wall
up to
a door marked "W."

    "Don't fall In the stall. 
     Don't mess in the dress. 
     You're the mess in the dress.  
     Confess...
     You
     loved him
     more.
     He
     loved you
     less.”

Over her head the dress she took
then shook, then hooked on the hook
to maintain its look.
It hung. Hanging.

Tights pulled down to the ground
she sat with a moan
shat in the throne
Then peed

     “What a waste.”

Still holding her phone.

Her bowels gave loose
tightened the noose
'round her gut.

    "Finn was a nut. That door is shut."

Puking up Finn
In a stainless steel bin
'top of sanitary napkins
solid with sin
Each shed
Bore shades of red
born of women who only bleed
and bleed
And bled for a
Hymn
Or a him

    "Fuck Finn."

She wiped her ass clean
with the best ply in town.
She stood up in heels
tights still ankle down.

Tore off the silver “Finnship” bracelet
They’d worn matching for years.
Facing the toilet,
no thoughts,
no tears.

Tossed the thing
Into the pristine white bowl
Watching it
sink
sink
sink
in a blink
An ingredient of contaminated soup
spiced by her shock;
soiled triple ply
shit brown shit
bright yellow pee

a vile smile
pea green with bile
swept cross her face

    “I’m done with him. I want out of this place.”

There it was simmering...
Her pastiche.

An ode to a "waste" of time/life/not want/ not admitting,
even her nerves knew not,
knot in her subconscious stomach
oblivious to the silver sacrifice of heart broken promise,
once held sacred to
two.

One silver bracelet offered in earnest by a dead guy.
Placed in a manila personal property envelope adorned with the logo of upscale morgue.

The other of two,
to one of the many fancy high rise hotel's porcelain thrones.
She pushed the brushed nickel handle down Saying goodbye with a
Royal Flush.

Flushed she looked staring at herself in the bathroom mirror after cleaning up, pulling up, gathering up. Now touching up makeup.

    "Make up? I gotta make up with Finn. Someday. Not this one. Fuck him."

She thought. Her forehead taut. From a Botox shot. Set in. Perfectly masking her pain.

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About the Author

Jocelyn Morelli is a Sunday Company Alumnus of the Groundlings Theatre. She holds a B.A. in Theatre Arts from Humboldt State University. Since moving to Arkansas in 1997, she has performed with Phun Bags Comedy Improv, Sound Effects, Artists Laboratory Theatre, Arts Center of the Ozarks, and the Prison Story Project.