It took a while for people to warm to Malcom. Soon, though, everyone was talking to him. More and more characters started to appear on the walls, each with their own unique personalities.There was Billybob, a man with scissors for eyes and a pasta moustache. He played the banjo and was prone to voilent outbursts.Hail-Maria, a stern Nun with a broken test tube for a nose, who disapproved of everything.Then there was everyone's favourite, Phillipious. He had a Greek accent and said those thoughts that normal people would not say out loud in polite company.
There was a blowsy November song, the trees whistling a high B as we walked over the patheticness of dead leaves.The scarf was snaked-wrapped round your neck and the windfroze an ice glittering smile on your face.It froze everything, from my fingers to this memory.You skipped to me, grabbed my hand as we passed drizzling grey buildings.I could feel the cold climbing through my body and all I wanted to do waspress you ever closer and feel your breath against my cheek whilethe trees kept on whilstling a high B for the November song.
An autopsy.Let's start with the chest.Snicker through the skin with the scalpel,peel back the dulled coat and showthe bones and blood. The real stuff.Not in perfect condition, but who is?Slight chips in the ribs and chest.Been hit too many times, one imagines.Away with those too, saw at the arches lets get to the crpyt beneath, hurry up, no need to care, he can't complain any longer. Not this goner.Ah. There it is. The still, quiet heart. Rather worn. Used once.No longer.