My killer flipped me over and opened the flap of skin he had cut into my torso. He sighed like he was happy. My killer has the ugly sort of hands that a lot of male bass guitar players have. These sorts of fingers taper in a very bad way. As though these sorts of hands have upside down ice-cream cones growing out of their palms. My killer moved his fingers like his hands were dancing sea anemones.
‘Get to the damn point, twinkle toes,’ I snapped at him.
‘Shut it, pizza face,’ he said and turned my face to the back wall with a sharp jab of his ugly palm. The most annoying part of being dead was not being able to turn my head back and stare him down. People were always too chicken shit to look directly at my face. As though one of my pimples might explode on them if I should move the muscles of my face to meet their expressions.
My killer started to stroke the tips of my ribs. In the classically paradoxical effeminate way with which male bass guitar players’ hands go about their business, his palm was always lower than his fingertips. Like his palm was heavier than his fingers. This is exactly the opposite of what a piano player’s hands do, have you ever noticed? My killer started tapping the tips of my ribs with his fingers. Very lightly at first. Like a kitten paws a toy.
‘Here we go,’ he mumbled and then my killer gave my bottom-most rib a sharp rap with the knuckle of one of his ugly forefingers. He did it again. Like my rib was hollow and he could sound out just how empty it was inside.
‘Exquisite!’ my killer gasped and rapped again.
But I didn’t hear shit. ‘Fucking lunatic,’ I said to the back wall.
‘Shut it,’ he said and needlessly shoved the back of my head.
My killer started playing me. He played the tunes I had to teach myself because no one really talked to me at school and mother ignored me. These tunes were simple and tripped over themselves as they went. My killer was obviously a beginner.
But he improved with time. As his shed grew moldier and moldier and then drier and drier again and the lightning storms gave way to dry white light falling across my decomposing body in stripes, my killer improved.
One day he lifted both arms over his head and interlaced his fingers. I could hear them crack and so could he. His eyes popped with the crack.
‘Hear that?’ he asked and brought his hands down to look at them. He held his hands out like I was a fire to warm them by. My killer rubbed his hands and then sank them into my yawning chest and he played me a final time. If I could have turned my head to look at him play me, I would have. Instead I peered through a tiny slit in the back wall. I could see little blue flowers growing in between the tall grass outside.
My killer dug a hole in the backyard and put me inside. He left the heap of earth next to the hole. With time the heap grew weeds that now dip into my hole. I look at the tiny ants going up and down the weeds and sometimes a bird crosses the sky.