Next of Kin
On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen
golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence
sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows
as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy
I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears
facing my own fears for my future
forcing myself to read past the first paragraph
Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous
The bathroom of the apartment one level below
black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm
congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink
I could smell it in the ink
the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse
The identity of the source of the gore from above
gleaned from the contents of his wallet
removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor
by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit
He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame
to see his name on marquees
hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines
like the one I was currently reading
His neighbors knew nothing of him
describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum
as a silent ghost
rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door
as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures
In the end no next of kin could be found
His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf
in the city morgue for a year
before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade
in a corner of a neglected cemetery
along with all the others who had died alone
unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned
-
Copyright © Angela Douglas | Year Posted 2021
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