Sins of the Flesh (Flash! Friday)

Joan Crawford & John Gilbert: publicity photo for the film "Four Walls", 1928 Public Domain Image in the US

Sins of the Flesh

The coffin lies length-wise along the mahogany table, glass to one side, bowl the other, lights dimmed.

“Take your leave,” I say.  “Close your ears.”

The dark haired man leaves quickly, avoiding my eyes – fumbling the mental into my hand.

I drain the vessel in one draught, placing the grubby coin in my pocket; tribute paid to the old ways.

"Free yourself," I say.  "Rest easy."  He won't hear.  The hunger rises through my gut, riding me roughshod.  "Damn."  My mouth descends; ravenous.

I gag - stale ash and sweat on my tongue - swallowing to keep it down, afterwards, before opening the door.  

"It's done," I say to the client, brow creased.  "He'll pass now."  The man nods, without asking.  They never do, after dinner.

The cough threatens premature regurgitation at the entance.  I'll reunite it with its owner later.  Money is an unfaithful mistress.  Some sins have an altogether price.



Ed to Add:-  This one received an Honourable Mention this week.