Rebecca sat on the cold wall. It was summer.
In her hand she held a ham sandwich and she thought about death.
Every bite tasted like decay and agony.
Hard to swallow, impossible to chew into nothingness.
Stomping teeth, circling tongue, digested, the terror resurfaces, the taste.
He burnt that day, went up in flames.
She stared at her sandwich, the ham hanging on the edges and she tasted him.
There on her lips again, there on her fingers again.
The smelly ham, the traitor, the secret jumping out of the confessional box.
Wrath and disappointment orbit her.
The masks point their fingers at her.
Nobody asks the right questions because nobody wants to hear the answer.
Is he wearing his mask post-mortem?
Rebecca dissolves on the wall and is pierced by disbelief.
There is no form to Rebecca, there is no etiquette to Rebecca.
She broke all the rules and has lost her manners.
The ham was shoved into the sandwich.
Blemished by the butter and the lettuce.
Cut smooth across the edges.
Gliding into an oblivious darkness, decomposed.