Decadence
by Kyle Garrison
I am in love with a dead woman. She’s there, lying in the middle of the room, flies buzzing around her decomposing body. I can’t remember how long it’s been. I kind of like it, the comfort she offers, or rather, the lack thereof. It’s addictive.
I step over her tangled mess of hair as I make my way to the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgles, and I pour a cup for myself and one for her. I know she won't drink it, but it feels wrong not to offer, especially since the deep, bitter aroma now dominates the house. As I turn back, I notice her bony fingers have moved slightly, reaching towards me. I tell myself it's just the natural processes of decay, but deep down, I know better.
“Here, have a cup,” I say, setting down the mug on the side table near her body. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not really a gift as much as a nice gesture. No strings attached.”
I sit down on my black leather couch and take a sip out of my own mug, beginning to scroll through my social feeds. We used to do this together for hours. We still do, but now I relay my findings aloud rather than forwarding them to her DMs. I like it better this way—I guess she does, too.
I sigh and take another sip before looking back up at my love. The warming sensation of the coffee reminds me of the feelings she used to conjure within me. Not everyone is lucky enough to be in love. It might not be ideal, but at least I have that.
Our cozy moment is interrupted by a ping that cuts through the silence—my sister, again. I can’t tell her exactly what’s going on, but she should take the hint that I won’t be responding anytime soon; the 12 unanswered messages from her nag at me, filling my already overloaded guilty conscience. No, I didn’t kill the woman lying in the middle of my room if that’s what you’re thinking.
I toss my phone across the couch. Out of sight, out of mind—that's how I've been dealing with a lot of things lately. I look back at her, sprawled across my living room floor. She hasn't moved, not really, but somehow, she seems closer. Always closer, no matter how much distance I try to put between us.
I stand up, carefully stepping around her outstretched arm, bloated and bruised. Maybe I'll go for a walk, clear my head. But even as I reach for my coat, I know she'll be there when I get back. She always is. I look out the window, the Sun warm on my face, forcing me to squint to view the tree branches swaying gently in the wind. Pointless.
So, I sit back down, the couch squeaking with apparent support.
“Stop,” I say to no one in particular. I might have said it to her, maybe to myself, maybe to the kids outside riding their bikes. Doesn’t matter; we stopped all the same.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. The paint is peeling in the corner where the roof leaked last winter. I should fix that. I should do a lot of things. But every task, every decision feels monumental with her watching. Judging.
I glance at her face—or what's left of it. Her eyes are sunken now, but I swear I can still feel them fixated on me. “What do you want from me?” I ask. No response.
She’s beautiful. Even still, with her unkempt appearance. I can’t tell anybody. They’d say, “Her? You’re insane.” And I know they’d be right. That’s why I can’t tell anybody.
She wasn’t always like this. Her laugh, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about music. Now those same eyes stare blankly. Accusing.
I want to look away, but I can't. I'm drawn to her, even now. Especially now. Because, well, now she can't leave. She's mine forever, in all her decaying glory. And isn't that what love is? Decadence?
I reach for my guitar, propped against the wall where I left it months ago. A thin layer of dust coats the strings. She loved when I played for her. Now, as I strum a discordant chord, I wait for a reaction that never comes. The music feels hollow, echoing in the silence of the room. I used to think we’d create a new, meaningful series of notes; I mean, I always knew we’d never create a symphony. But now I realize it's just the same few notes. It was always those same, unforgiving notes. But I keep playing, even if she can’t. What else is there to do? I am in love with a dead woman, after all.
I set the grimy guitar back in its place and lay down on my couch, facing her, of course. I smile. Tears begin to form in the corners of my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away with the backs of my hands, still smiling. “I hate you, you know that? You’re the only person capable of this.” She continued her blank stare.
The white rug on which she lay was soaked in fluids oozing from her insides. It’s obvious she’s not coming back. I should clean that up. I've been saying that for… how long now?
The stain will never come out. I know that. Just like I know she's gone. Really gone. Not just emotionally unavailable or mentally checked out like before. This is different. Final. Yet here I am, still talking to her, still expecting...what? A miracle? A sign? I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. Who am I kidding? The only sign I'm going to get is when the neighbors start complaining about the smell. But they won't, will they? Because there is no smell. There never has been. I know that. Just like I know she’s not really there, lying in my living room.
“Are you finished?” I say. I snap my head in her direction. I can’t feel my face. “Why’d you do this to me? To us?” Her empty gaze answers with indifference.
I laugh and scramble to start my playlist. That's all I listen to now. We used to listen to more, but I’ve distilled it down to the essentials.
“Sorry,” I apologize with the click of the speakers sounding the first track. “You didn’t like my tastes anyways.” The music vibrates the speakers, then the floor. I still can’t feel my face.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. When I look up, she's still there. Of course, she is. I won’t let her leave. Except she is leaving, isn't she? The rot spreads a little more each day, claiming another inch of what used to be her. I wonder, absently, how long it will take before there's nothing left but bones. Will I love her then? Will I still make her coffee and play her songs? I snort, a sound that scrapes against my throat. Who am I kidding? I'll probably polish her bones, arrange them just so, and call it art. My masterpiece of decay. I stand up, my legs unsteady and walk over to her. Kneeling beside what remains of her face, I whisper, “I love you. Always will.” Her perfume smells like a musty cave.
I stand up, my knees creaking in protest. The room spins for a moment, and I steady myself against the wall. “Shall I make you a sandwich, too?”
I shuffle to the kitchen, my feet scratching the dirty floor. The fridge opens with a sickly gasp. Empty, save for a carton of milk weeks past its expiration date and a withered apple. I shrug and grab the apple, wiping it half-heartedly on my shirt before taking a bite. It's dry, tasteless. Just like everything else these days.
Returning to the living room, I pause in the doorway. From this angle, in the fading afternoon light, I can almost pretend she's just sleeping. Almost.
"Sorry, it’s not a sandwich. We should go shopping," I say, kneeling beside her again. I place the half-eaten apple in her outstretched hand.
I make my way back and sink into the couch, watching her. The shadows lengthen, casting strange patterns across her body. In this light, I swear I see her chest rise and fall.
Just a trick of the light. It has to be. And yet, I can't look away. What if she moves again? What if this time, she opens her eyes, sits up, tells me she loves me?
"Did you see that?" I whisper, leaning forward. "You moved, didn't you?" Silence.
A soft thud breaks the stillness. The apple has rolled off her hand, leaving a trail of brown rot on her mottled skin.
I slide off the couch and crawl towards her. The carpet is damp beneath my hands. I pretend not to notice.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, retrieving the apple. "I should have cut it for you."
My fingers brush against her arm as I place the apple back in her hand. Her skin is cold, waxy.
"We should celebrate," I say suddenly, the idea blossoming in my mind like a fever dream. We didn’t have an anniversary, so might as well start a new tradition.
I struggle to my feet, swaying slightly. The kitchen seems miles away, but I make it, fumbling through drawers until I find what I'm looking for. A single, slightly bent birthday candle and a book of matches. I grab the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter.
Back in the living room, I carefully push the candle into the apple's flesh. It takes three tries to light the match with my shaking hands.
"Make a wish," I whisper as the tiny flame sparks to life. In its glow, the shadows dance across her face. For a moment, just a moment, I see her smile.
The candle burns down quickly, wax dripping onto the apple, onto her hand. I should move it. I don't.
"What did you wish for?" I ask, knowing there will be no answer. "I wished for this to never end. For us to be together, always." I feel my insides fill with that warming feeling again.
The flame flickers out, plunging the room back into twilight. I feel a shift in the air. A presence. Movement.
"Darling?" I breathe, hardly daring to hope. "Is that you?"
“Yes.”
I perk up, seeing now that her wish was to come back to me. The liquor bottle lay empty next to my feet; she must have been thirsty.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Her voice is low, scratchier than I remember. I move to light another match.
She interrupts, “Don’t. You’ll regret it.” I pause.
“How do you know what I’ll regret?”
“It’s not the first time.” She wheezes.
“I know. But I’ve changed.” The air grows colder, and I feel a damp hand caress my cheek. I close my eyes, lean in. “I missed you. Will you stay?”
“I can’t. You know that.”
“But I’ve changed. Don’t you see?” The cold hand slides down my face and across my neck. Another hand brushes my chest and grasps the other side of my neck, pulling me forward. Ice-cold air stings my face, her breath.
She chokes on her words, “I need you.”
I step over her tangled mess of hair as I make my way to the kitchen. The coffee maker gurgles, and I pour a cup for myself and one for her. I know she won't drink it, but it feels wrong not to offer, especially since the deep, bitter aroma now dominates the house. As I turn back, I notice her bony fingers have moved slightly, reaching towards me. I tell myself it's just the natural processes of decay, but deep down, I know better.
“Here, have a cup,” I say, setting down the mug on the side table near her body. “Yeah, I know. But it’s not really a gift as much as a nice gesture. No strings attached.”
I sit down on my black leather couch and take a sip out of my own mug, beginning to scroll through my social feeds. We used to do this together for hours. We still do, but now I relay my findings aloud rather than forwarding them to her DMs. I like it better this way—I guess she does, too.
I sigh and take another sip before looking back up at my love. The warming sensation of the coffee reminds me of the feelings she used to conjure within me. Not everyone is lucky enough to be in love. It might not be ideal, but at least I have that.
Our cozy moment is interrupted by a ping that cuts through the silence—my sister, again. I can’t tell her exactly what’s going on, but she should take the hint that I won’t be responding anytime soon; the 12 unanswered messages from her nag at me, filling my already overloaded guilty conscience. No, I didn’t kill the woman lying in the middle of my room if that’s what you’re thinking.
I toss my phone across the couch. Out of sight, out of mind—that's how I've been dealing with a lot of things lately. I look back at her, sprawled across my living room floor. She hasn't moved, not really, but somehow, she seems closer. Always closer, no matter how much distance I try to put between us.
I stand up, carefully stepping around her outstretched arm, bloated and bruised. Maybe I'll go for a walk, clear my head. But even as I reach for my coat, I know she'll be there when I get back. She always is. I look out the window, the Sun warm on my face, forcing me to squint to view the tree branches swaying gently in the wind. Pointless.
So, I sit back down, the couch squeaking with apparent support.
“Stop,” I say to no one in particular. I might have said it to her, maybe to myself, maybe to the kids outside riding their bikes. Doesn’t matter; we stopped all the same.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. The paint is peeling in the corner where the roof leaked last winter. I should fix that. I should do a lot of things. But every task, every decision feels monumental with her watching. Judging.
I glance at her face—or what's left of it. Her eyes are sunken now, but I swear I can still feel them fixated on me. “What do you want from me?” I ask. No response.
She’s beautiful. Even still, with her unkempt appearance. I can’t tell anybody. They’d say, “Her? You’re insane.” And I know they’d be right. That’s why I can’t tell anybody.
She wasn’t always like this. Her laugh, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about music. Now those same eyes stare blankly. Accusing.
I want to look away, but I can't. I'm drawn to her, even now. Especially now. Because, well, now she can't leave. She's mine forever, in all her decaying glory. And isn't that what love is? Decadence?
I reach for my guitar, propped against the wall where I left it months ago. A thin layer of dust coats the strings. She loved when I played for her. Now, as I strum a discordant chord, I wait for a reaction that never comes. The music feels hollow, echoing in the silence of the room. I used to think we’d create a new, meaningful series of notes; I mean, I always knew we’d never create a symphony. But now I realize it's just the same few notes. It was always those same, unforgiving notes. But I keep playing, even if she can’t. What else is there to do? I am in love with a dead woman, after all.
I set the grimy guitar back in its place and lay down on my couch, facing her, of course. I smile. Tears begin to form in the corners of my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away with the backs of my hands, still smiling. “I hate you, you know that? You’re the only person capable of this.” She continued her blank stare.
The white rug on which she lay was soaked in fluids oozing from her insides. It’s obvious she’s not coming back. I should clean that up. I've been saying that for… how long now?
The stain will never come out. I know that. Just like I know she's gone. Really gone. Not just emotionally unavailable or mentally checked out like before. This is different. Final. Yet here I am, still talking to her, still expecting...what? A miracle? A sign? I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. Who am I kidding? The only sign I'm going to get is when the neighbors start complaining about the smell. But they won't, will they? Because there is no smell. There never has been. I know that. Just like I know she’s not really there, lying in my living room.
“Are you finished?” I say. I snap my head in her direction. I can’t feel my face. “Why’d you do this to me? To us?” Her empty gaze answers with indifference.
I laugh and scramble to start my playlist. That's all I listen to now. We used to listen to more, but I’ve distilled it down to the essentials.
“Sorry,” I apologize with the click of the speakers sounding the first track. “You didn’t like my tastes anyways.” The music vibrates the speakers, then the floor. I still can’t feel my face.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. When I look up, she's still there. Of course, she is. I won’t let her leave. Except she is leaving, isn't she? The rot spreads a little more each day, claiming another inch of what used to be her. I wonder, absently, how long it will take before there's nothing left but bones. Will I love her then? Will I still make her coffee and play her songs? I snort, a sound that scrapes against my throat. Who am I kidding? I'll probably polish her bones, arrange them just so, and call it art. My masterpiece of decay. I stand up, my legs unsteady and walk over to her. Kneeling beside what remains of her face, I whisper, “I love you. Always will.” Her perfume smells like a musty cave.
I stand up, my knees creaking in protest. The room spins for a moment, and I steady myself against the wall. “Shall I make you a sandwich, too?”
I shuffle to the kitchen, my feet scratching the dirty floor. The fridge opens with a sickly gasp. Empty, save for a carton of milk weeks past its expiration date and a withered apple. I shrug and grab the apple, wiping it half-heartedly on my shirt before taking a bite. It's dry, tasteless. Just like everything else these days.
Returning to the living room, I pause in the doorway. From this angle, in the fading afternoon light, I can almost pretend she's just sleeping. Almost.
"Sorry, it’s not a sandwich. We should go shopping," I say, kneeling beside her again. I place the half-eaten apple in her outstretched hand.
I make my way back and sink into the couch, watching her. The shadows lengthen, casting strange patterns across her body. In this light, I swear I see her chest rise and fall.
Just a trick of the light. It has to be. And yet, I can't look away. What if she moves again? What if this time, she opens her eyes, sits up, tells me she loves me?
"Did you see that?" I whisper, leaning forward. "You moved, didn't you?" Silence.
A soft thud breaks the stillness. The apple has rolled off her hand, leaving a trail of brown rot on her mottled skin.
I slide off the couch and crawl towards her. The carpet is damp beneath my hands. I pretend not to notice.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, retrieving the apple. "I should have cut it for you."
My fingers brush against her arm as I place the apple back in her hand. Her skin is cold, waxy.
"We should celebrate," I say suddenly, the idea blossoming in my mind like a fever dream. We didn’t have an anniversary, so might as well start a new tradition.
I struggle to my feet, swaying slightly. The kitchen seems miles away, but I make it, fumbling through drawers until I find what I'm looking for. A single, slightly bent birthday candle and a book of matches. I grab the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter.
Back in the living room, I carefully push the candle into the apple's flesh. It takes three tries to light the match with my shaking hands.
"Make a wish," I whisper as the tiny flame sparks to life. In its glow, the shadows dance across her face. For a moment, just a moment, I see her smile.
The candle burns down quickly, wax dripping onto the apple, onto her hand. I should move it. I don't.
"What did you wish for?" I ask, knowing there will be no answer. "I wished for this to never end. For us to be together, always." I feel my insides fill with that warming feeling again.
The flame flickers out, plunging the room back into twilight. I feel a shift in the air. A presence. Movement.
"Darling?" I breathe, hardly daring to hope. "Is that you?"
“Yes.”
I perk up, seeing now that her wish was to come back to me. The liquor bottle lay empty next to my feet; she must have been thirsty.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Her voice is low, scratchier than I remember. I move to light another match.
She interrupts, “Don’t. You’ll regret it.” I pause.
“How do you know what I’ll regret?”
“It’s not the first time.” She wheezes.
“I know. But I’ve changed.” The air grows colder, and I feel a damp hand caress my cheek. I close my eyes, lean in. “I missed you. Will you stay?”
“I can’t. You know that.”
“But I’ve changed. Don’t you see?” The cold hand slides down my face and across my neck. Another hand brushes my chest and grasps the other side of my neck, pulling me forward. Ice-cold air stings my face, her breath.
She chokes on her words, “I need you.”
Kyle Garrison lives in Ohio. He publishes on his Substack, More Weight, and is working on his first novel, Accordance.