Rolling Head
Not everything begins, but we see birth and death as such, though they reveal nothing of the cosmos. Consider the odds of our existence over oblivion.
I could not bear the sight of her head on the table, surrounded by heaps of empty glasses and scattered ash like traces of an unforgivable sin. Nor could I fathom her naked body lying in one corner, while the scent of fresh blood engulfed the room, wrapping around me with an inescapable chokehold. I stumbled out of the cursed room, colliding with the forensic officer and the chief detective, who regarded me with harsh, accusing glares. They questioned me in a tone laced with tension and accusation about what I had been doing inside and why I had emerged in panic. I told them, in a trembling voice, that the scene was more than I could handle. The forensic officer laughed, and within moments, officers surrounded me, roughly handcuffing me and beating me while hurling insults. Despite this, the doctor’s laughter persisted, echoing in the solitary, dark cell that felt like a grave, where I was alone, isolated beneath the earth. Soon, I felt the random movements of insects around me, and the smell of decay began to blend slowly with the familiar scent of blood. I was not greatly surprised when I heard her heavy, labored breaths, as if announcing her presence and death itself. The certainty came when she whispered with a trembling voice, as if from the heart of hell: “Did I not tell you we are doomed, even if you killed me?” Then, her head rolled toward my feet.
