Donnerstag, 15. Oktober 2009

Bath tub Saturday

Henry Boyner was sitting in his bath tub. The water must have gone cold meanwhile, he supposed. It probably felt a bit sticky, too, and the colour was strange, as far as bath water was concerned.

Henry Boyner was dead.

He had been enjoyiing his usual hot Ssaturday evening bath, which was usually followed by watching sports on TV and some romantic interlude with his wife Francis, when said Francis had appeared behind him - he had heard her plush slippers on the white tiles - and had grabbed his hair and sliced his throat before he had the time to turn around and say something nice to her. The cut had been smooth, clean and fast - years of practise slicing dead meat for dinner. He had always admired Francis' skills in the kitchen.

Looking at the off-blue wall had become a bit boring, Henry admitted. Following the practical ways of a thorough housewife, Francis had not let his head lol back and spill blood everywhere, but had kept it in his natural position, and all his bodily fluids had mixed with the fast-cooling water. The foam had dissolved, and out of the corner of his eyes - or at least he preferred to think he was still using his eyes - he could see it had taken on a brownish-red colour.

Strange, he had always thought the mixture of blood and water would be pink. It possibly depended on how much blood there was - and what else went into the mix. He was a bit ashamed when he thought of that last bit. His penis looked small and insignificant, floating in the water, and of that he was ashamed, too.

After slicing his throat, Francis had left the bath and phoned someone. He had heard her calm, quiet voice and couldn't understand the words. But he guessed it had something to do with him. Soon thereafter, the doorbell had rung, and now his wife and his two kids were standing in the batahroom, which seemed too small for all of them. Somehow they fitted in anyway. 27-year-old Michael, with his already balding head and the watery eyes behind very round glasses. Susan, 32 years old, with that tight bun of hair at the back of her head which always made her look so much older, and her lips pressed together tightly.

"We have to get rid of it", she said.

"Him", Michael corrected her, automatically.

"What shall we do?" Francis took a step closer and looked at him intently. Strange, she never had looked at him like this while he was still alive. She looked at him as if he were the most interesting thing in the world.

"Why don't we use the hand mixer?"

"Susan, don't be this stupid. I know you don't like cooking, but raw as he is, it would take hours to get him puréed. And probably ruin the knives anyway."

Henry remembered that it had always been a sore point for Francis that Susan had never shown the slightest interest in things concerning household tasks. He would have smiled at the thought, if he could have used his lips. His memories of the daily family life were fond.

"I'll go and google it", Michael offered. "There is an answer to everything on the internet."

"If only I hadn't thrown away the meat chopper last year", Francis mused.

From the living room, where Michael was probably sitting in front of the computer - Henry could almost see him: perched on the old chair, glasses on his forehead, a pen between his teeth (and God knew where he got that habit from!) - they heard, "It says some sort of ants wouold gnaw the bones clean within a few days!"

"And where do we get these ants, stupid?"

"Susan, be nice to your brother! He is only trying to help."

Dear Francis, always trying to keep the family together. Henry uttered an inaudible sigh. This would probably take some more time.

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