From Anthology Volume I: Writings from the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective, available on Amazon
Open up my skull and you will find her inside, in a tatty striped dress and muddy Doc Martens. Every bedroom, every hotel room, every airport lounge, train and coach I sleep in she is there, smiling and licking razor blades. When I shower I look into the steamed mirror and see a pair of blue eyes staring back at me. Neither of these eyes belong to my partner. She is still there, with a red flowing tongue and a black choker.
This is no guardian angel. She is guilt and sex and violence, with greasy hair and furry teeth – not brushed since her last remembered birthday and she always forgets her anniversaries. Years later, lying in bed next to my partner, ‘the woman I love’, I wait until I hear gentle snoring before I rest my head on the pillow and close my eyes. I know that I talk in my sleep, and all I think about is Her, with a mouth full of blood and bacteria. In my lucid dreams I feel the hairs on my face lift to receive that sour taste. I feel my pupils expand, opening like bank vault doors to a secret code.
As teenagers together, she took me to her secret place – a single tree in a circle of thick thorn bushes. Like a ballerina she danced up to a noose tied to a low branch, launched her head inside like a basketball three-pointer and thrashed – piss streaming like river deltas down her soiled, writhing legs as I watched, frozen in a moment of incredulous horror. After a few moments she lowered herself down and her barefoot heels touched terra firma.
She stood before me, at her full height, the rope now slack at her shoulders. There was no danger, it was all a game. Removing the noose, she walked towards me. You never even tried to save me she smiled, and kissed me hard. It tasted disgusting. And then she kneed me firmly in the groin.
I sank to my haunches; coughing and farting, with a stomach ache billowing through my insides. Looking down at the floor I saw brown leaves, dead twigs and ten toes with ten filthy toenails. I thought to myself; I wonder if my tongue could clean these grey stumps? A few minutes later, I knew the answer….
Jimmi Campkin is a “Writer, photographer, creator of SANCTUARY. 16bit child, INFP with clinical nostalgia and red wine for blood.” You can enjoy more of his work at jimmi campkin.com