Hiding a dead body is…easy, she says. It doesn’t require practice (that would be quite difficult to come by)
What one needs to know is where to begin.

As i listen, i am reminded of the time when she said, it was easy to conceal your insanity. You simply needed to know how to prioritise , what to hide and what to reveal, what to embellish and exhibit, and what to lull gently into forgetfulness.

How to fool people.
How to fool yourself to fool people.

The moment when you decide to hide a dead body is not an isolated crystallized shard embedded in the time stream. No,she says, it is a process. The final station on a train of thought.
A minor work of art carved up in your head by an exquisite mixture of guilt, exhilaration and fear.
And compromise. That is most important.


You must realise,she says, that the sequence of events leading to you standing in front of a dead body, still drenched in sweat and blood (if it comes to that), is probably the only sequence of events, ever,in the observable universe, in which you would actually matter. The only time when you would have a part to play in moving the great wheel that pushes life forward, crushing us under its heavy, ponderous advance. It could be a great moment.

And the world must not know about it.

The dilemma is devious, but delectable. Frightening, but fascinating. Grim, but gorgeous.

Why not just sit there then, i think? Why not just sit there at the bottom of your easel on the floor, by the heels of your masterpiece, and wait for the world to catch up with you?

Why not revel?

She smiles. I feel irritated.

Have YOU ever tried hiding a dead body, i ask her.
Once, she says.

What was it like ?

Souls are heavy things, she says.

Bodies you mean?
Nah , the body is ephemeral
Flesh melts
Bones turn to dust
Skin withers
The soul stays

It is a heavy thing, pregnant with ancient lust and newborn regret, but barren in it’s meaning. It’s weight is like a hot-air balloon. Self explanatory and useless.

It starts to rain.
The blood touches our feet. She takes a step back and hops on to a ledge. I follow her. 
We watch life seep out gently, like hot air out of a hot air balloon.
Newly useless.

How messy does it get, i ask.
Oh, pretty messy. Lots of stuff you need to get off your hands later on.
What kind of stuff?
You know, stuff. Stuff that made up life, stuff that death has to make do with . That kind of stuff .
And all that flows out,just like that?
……does it smell?

Ummmmm……yes, it does. Of rain. Ozone. The smell after rain. And unmade beds, and empty beds, and musty rooms and damp rooms and newborn babies and dead bodies like that one.
But basically an after rainy smell.

Like new beginnings?
Like fresh starts.

Ok…where do you hide it, then?

Everywhere, of course.

What, you chop it up and let the pieces fall where they may?
No, you idiot. You let THEM take a piece of it away with them.
All of it?
All of it. Whatever they want. You let them scavenge, forage for the pieces they know, pieces they recognise, pieces they consider their right-and you let them keep them.
They hide dead bodies for you,.

What if they don’t want any of it?
Don’t worry. They will. They always do. Everyone likes to burrow inside dead bodies for things they think are theirs; they grab them and keep them.

And that is fool-proof?
Depending on who the fool is.
Nothing remains?
Nothing worth anything is left behind for anyone to find.

……and you have done this before?
Once, she says.

She might be right. I sit with her on the window ledge, staring at the dead body. The rain beats down for a while, then relents. Small puddles inside. 
The blood reluctantly dissolves, disintegrates, gently.
The blood is always scavenged first, claimed first.

A new beginning.
An after rainy smell.



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