Peepshow Ruffles

His fist trembled before him, limp and lifeless. To a writer, fists were a thing of fantasy, as only the tingle of a finger tip allowed the tumble of rhymes to a typewriter. His russet-tinged knuckled concealed his true advantage; the hypnotic gaze of his words upon those whose pupils find such a marvel beneath the layers of alcohol and deluded contemplation. He held his paintbrush with the soul and not the dreariness of his etched tissue, where art becomes exposed to the sombre tones of ash, without the spark of ruby ravishment from his heart . From his memory of her. Releasing his fingers from their cage of joints and muscle, Christian tapped his charcoal thumbs upon the oak spine of an open door. Beneath the wooden planks and feathered casualties of Harry Zidler’s doorway stood the blush of a drunkard and the attire of a man of many women.

“Christian, I heard you.” scrambled Zidler from his 4 am vocabulary. From behind him, Christian could see a ruffled petticoat and the figure upon it. Her violent eyes bestowed upon him the urgency of he moment, and a warning of lingering discussion. She coughed loudly and vigorously, with her limp hand reaching for a cigarette. “Annabelle heard you too” replied Zidler sheepishly. She was not a common rose, but seemingly picked from another nearby garden. The old man always had standards of taking away the illusion of sun from the Rouge’s meadow. She was far from freshly bloomed, but still upheld the grace of a lily and the complexion of a rose.

“Adele” Christian muttered in disbelief, staring intently on a brittle piece of pavement beneath his overwhelming shadow. “I need-” he began, within him the sensation of her silk flames against his skin fluttered throughout, feeling it extinguish slowly as the warmth of May’s buds disintegrated into tarnished petals of the winter frames of brittle trees. He continued with a quiver of oppression and the vibration of venture in his buzzing tone “I need to know who did this to her. I need to know who scarred my beauty, who pierced m painting, who made a mockery of my poetry!” demanded Christian, pausing for scarce breath “I need the man who did this to her.”

Zidler felt his words through the glass of Christian’s window to the skies, his glance.

“Why her?” demanded Christian, his voice setting from a rich liquid to an irascible plea of malcontent, “of all the women, of all the whores, of all the flowers, why pluck the petals from the most distinguished?” He folded his biceps into his tattered jacket of wool and dye. “Why the sweetest smelling daisy, why the kindest of all stems, why-” He was interrupted by the croak of Annabelle’s throat from the background, her raspy accent gaining an audience:

“Why do you care so much?” enquired the voice from the glimmers of a thighs peering out from the room before him.

“She’s charred, she’s scratched, she’s blemished. Her skin has lost all memory of flesh and obeys the waves of crimson from her tattoos of ordeals so wretched the mind does not forgive even the thought of it. She has taken whips from the devil, something you might not understand!” His voice echoed around the room now, reflecting the chaos of Christian’s yelling on the streets. His eyes ignited from ice to fire as they scanned Annabelle’s layers of powder and primping for an indication that she understood why.

The foreign femme grazed the tip of her thigh, unrolling a second stocking from her cryptic skin. Brushes of violet and coal lay against her skin as if it were a mural, with flitters of maroon carvings delving deep into her own scourges.

“Most men don’t realise” replied she, bitterly, “So, why did you gallop all the way here in your boyish armour?

He stared at her blankly before announcing entirely, his mind skimming through the sheets of their rendezvous and lustful grazes, “Because I care.”