The Dark Corner

Writhing. Beautiful. Perfection. 
A universe pulsing in harmony, born of Rex’s salvation. 
They mesmerise me, faceless, pure. 

I lift my glass. Its round bulb is sticky with rust-brown smudges. My head spins as I tilt it back…consuming. A wretched hag turned goddess, here, in this tiny apartment temple. 

I stare at the tendrils of sediment left behind; a coral bed of purple-red tentacles creeping up the glass. I hold it up to the fractured light seeping through the curtains. 
My stench rises. 
I breathe it in. 
Horrible. Satisfying. 

I tip the glass over them. The dregs of wine falling. An offering to my faceless children. 
I watch them move as one. 
They are the truth. 
Undamaged. 
Selfless. 
Life. 

I need more wine. 

Only ten steps, maybe less. 
The cracked curtain light forms a pathway to the kitchen table. 
I sway, gripping the edge of it. 
Thick, curling ringlets of my dirty black hair, matted like Rex’s fur, shield my face. 

“I still see you, my darlings,” I call back to them, watching over my shoulder. 

I grab the bottle beside the flowers. 
Flowers that ungrateful brother of mine brought me. A token from a disingenuous parasite. 

“Thanks so much for watching Rex, Sis,” he smiled, though fear flickered in his eyes as he took me in. 
“You sure it’s… you’re okay?” he’d asked, eyes low as he backed out the door. Not waiting. Not wanting my answer. 

As if I couldn’t manage. As if I was the problem. 

I twist the cap, the last bottle, of bottles upon bottles. 
It pours like mother’s milk. 
Red. Heavy. 
It soothes me, as it slides down my throat. 
I wipe my mouth, tasting the metallic slime of Rex’s that clings to my sleeve. 

Sweet Rex. Too good for this world. 
My brother will see harmony in my work. 
He will. 
He will. 
My good work. 
After all, he left me to mind Rex days ago. Was it days, days or weeks ago now? No matter. My work is pure. It is good. 

I loved the dog. 
Gave him wine. 
Let him suckle my dry breast that once flowed for my child. My little baby girl. Just three days we had with her. That milk flowed for weeks after we lost her. 

Rex would never feel that pain. This world is cruel. I saved him when I pushed the knife through his back. It freed him. 
He tried to bite me. 
I scolded him for that. 
I had to. 
Hit him hard with the blunt end. 

Pushed the knife further inside him. His blood flowed warm and thick. Soon his protests turned to whimpers. 
Then silence. 
Acceptance of my good work. 

And from Rex, blessings. 
My babies. 
They came fast from the wound on his back. 
Theirs is a perfect world. 
Purposeful. 
Peaceful. 
Not like this rotten one, filled with hate, loneliness, isolation. 

“Stupid flowers,” I shout, swiping. 

They are just like the ones on my baby girl’s coffin, all those years ago. 
Of course my brother would bring these flowers. He is a harbinger of death. 

I grab a fallen white rosebud from the floor. 

Another offering. 

I lurch back. 

Glass in one hand. Rose in the other. 

I kneel. 

My fingers find the cold, furred curve of Rex. 

I lay my head against his cold body. 
Take the rose. 
Press it to them. To the altar of their universe. 
My maggot babies crawl over to it. 
Climb my face. 
Embrace me. 
Their mother. 
Their goddess. 

There’s a knock on the door. 
I look up. 
My brother must be back. 

He will meet my new babies. 
And embrace me as; 
The Goddess of Creation. 

Sharon Keating is a Wexford-based writer. She enjoys writing short stories that explore themes like societal pressure, horror, identity, loss, and oppression through a modern lens. Her work has appeared in The Wexford Bohemian, Wexford Women Writing Undercover, The Dark Corner,  New Word Order and Tales From Beyond.