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‘Mirabella,’ the skeleton smiled.
Michael shivered under his stained robe. He had long grey hairs growing out of his chin. An unlit cigarette stuck to his lip.
‘Hi,’ I said. Then I started to cry.
Michael turned away from me and lurched headfirst into the noise. I locked the door behind me. It sounded like AC/DC or something. There was a chemical stink that mixed with the smell of my blood. Michael’s place was a mess of teacups and blankets in tents on the floor, bottles on their sides and books off the shelves – split open and stuck in the shape of brooms.
I didn’t want to sit and I didn’t want to stand.
Michael teetered and dropped down on his black couch, moaning as he dropped.
‘Stop crying, Mirabella. I want to watch you dance.’
‘Why?’ I screamed, trying to stop myself from more crying when he was the one sick. ‘I can’t move to this!’
‘It’s Swedish – Dead Korinthians,’ Michael said. He didn’t have to scream. ‘I can’t read anymore.’
I stood there in front of him, pooling blood. I couldn’t move. The sound was male howling.
‘Dance, Mira!’ the skeleton said. He raised his purple-knuckled fist in the air.
I started moving my hips in tiny circles on top of my legs. The music ramped up and Michael fisted along. His hand turned into a V sign, then back to a fist.
I gyrated and spun. Me and Michael entered the obliteration of open men’s throats. The backs of my legs started spasming in pain, the way they had in Gio’s car.
I heard Michael chanting. I let my head hang. I let my arms hang. I realized that all I’d really done in the past year for exercise or anything else was dance at the club, dance in high heels. My legs felt dead. I hung my head down to that sound. Almost all of my body had turned into static. I felt blood in my eyes. I started to get used to the hanging, this feeling of trying to feel through the numbness.
I looked through my hair at Michael. He was smiling at me, perfe
ct in midnight light.
This near-dead man wanted the truth out of me.
Between my head and the carpet, I felt hot little beats. I wrapped my arms around my legs, hugged my chest to my thighs. It felt so good to have my stomach in a fold. My whole body spiralled in on itself.
Michael’s face seemed thicker, suddenly pink. The song finished so abruptly that the silence rang in my ears. I stood up, unsteady. I rubbed my hands on my face.
‘You dance like a warrior woman now. How’d that happen, Mirabella?’
I felt proud and then embarrassed.
‘Uh, there was this guy that I was seeing at the club and he said that the first time he saw me dancing he felt ashamed for me. He said I was up there because of men’s longings. Like, that all men wanted me to be their whore. And that reminded me of you and John, like how I grew up with you guys or something. But Gio said he didn’t know if I could handle that yet. He said he didn’t know if I knew how to soothe a man yet. How to let all these strange men love me for their own release. Gio said that the other girls forgot what they did – grabbing on to men’s cocks for a living. Gio said I was different. All the great whores become pure, Gio said.’
I felt pins and needles all over my body.
‘And do you align yourself philosophically with this guy?’ Michael stared at me, pointing the remote at the stereo. A new song cut through, screams about Lucifer. ‘I think maybe I do,’ I said.
My Russian evil man Jew was the Bringer of Light.
‘Maybe you should reconsider,’ said Michael. ‘The so-called purity of the great whore.’
I bent my knees deep and reached my hands to the ground to sit down, but I lost my balance and fell into the carpet.
‘Rahab,’ said Michael, ‘was the political whore.’
Michael lit a cigarette and immediately began to hack. His robe came open and I saw his chest. It was lined with purple holes.
Michael passed me his cigarette. I sat up and I smoked it.
