Death of a Princess

Vultures swooped at fast evading carrion; Vespa hornet squadron buzzed; Paparazzi psychology, ruthless across screaming Macadam black as the blackest slabs of night. Sheet lightning born of flashbulbs popping; illuminated faces strobed under toughened glass; wide eyes, teeth gritted, urging crazy dizzy velocity; all the riches and love in the world could not stop this madness. The end came sharply defined in pointless scream of brakes; smoking tyres losing traction; arms instinctively covering eyes, futile protection from Death’s unavoidable dominion. The solid tunnel wall shouted STOP! A marriage of metal and unyielding brickwork; shatterproof glass shards, wild pearls strewn on black velvet cape; rupturing vital organs, impact snaps of compounded fractures; far siren’s discord imaging echoed anguish, amplifying fear. The unmistakable odour of Chanel and gasoline. What images, what captured souls lay on film in guilty cameras shamefacedly dangling from leather straps like one-eyed hanging men? What story of the last of life do they tell? Must there be one of tearstained face, speed-blurred under toughened glass; host begging eyes ‘neath curling lashes, agate yet ambivalent, inviting or repelling; lips parted, mouthing one last word: please!