The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

52
with sweat. He closed his eyes as the preacher droned
on, an insolent bluebottle, his words full of disease
and death, thanking Jesus for his generous gift of
misery.
And how generous He had been to Gemma;
cancer, strokes, diabetes, colostomy bags, and a pain
in her eyes morphine could never reach. Yes, Gemma
must have been one of God’s favourites, for He had
marked her out as His special project.
He could feel the perspiration spit and crackle
on his frying scalp; the earth was plummeting into a
flame-ringed abyss. In the instant he braced himself
for impact, he heard the voice instead.
Here is my victory, it said in a rumbling baritone,
its texture cold and smooth, a welcome arctic
blast in his brain, Here is my sting.
Jeff opened his eyes, searching for its source,
but the other mourners seemed oblivious, lost in grief
or wondering how soon they could make their excuses
and leave; to sunbathe in their gardens or spew platitudes
in the nearest bar.
What did they know of Gemma, what of suffering?
We were so close, wind and rain, a perfect
storm, my love.
He had even cut her palm and pressed it to the
open wound in his own, commingling their blood in a
hackneyed gesture dressed up as high romance. Even
now, he felt a pang of shame at his fear, as the warm
viscous fluid stuck their hands in a fleshy manacle,
that her poisoned blood, awash with cancerous cells,
(swirling black orbs ringed with razor teeth) would