Trixie is a severed head. She sees the idiots at onward jangling through the streets. They move in hurried pace and chatter echoing sounds. Their feet clop down the street and luggage and carriages clutter. Trixie would really like to kill them all. She wishes one would steer close enough that she might take a bite out of it. Chomp.
Trixie is a severed head on a street corner. She is hanging from a lamp post, above out of reach the commotioners. Raised above the decaying urban she inhabits a minor sphere of sanctuary. Not high enough for in the sky, which threatens to rain. It doesn’t rain. Gray ever clouded she wishes it would rain. It smells like rain. Then the worms might come out, they already have. Ponies pass by and forth in the crowd and disappear to distant fog. She hopes it consumes them in searing white.
Trixie is a severed head that doesn’t die. It is unsure how long she has been here and how long she will remain. Change has been forgotten. Always the stream and noise and city and sky. There is no light, no need. Above is empty. Wishes the streets were empty, of life. Would make it empty if still were able. But all her limbs are removed. They were great for gripping and choking and bashing and slashing. She’d been a well-oiled machine then, when had limbs.
Trixie is a severed head overhanging out of reach. They stumble down the street, no attention toward her. Forgotten already. She would bark curses at them but has no lungs. They took off her body in punishment, or maybe reward. Maybe there used to be a light. Single high bright with corrosive vitality. Or many dim building to a considerable sum. Whatever was faded away, all lights faded away. It’s always been fading. There is hope the others will fade away as well. None of them deserve to live. Trixie doesn’t deserve to live. That is incidental. She is alive and would greatly like to end a life.
Trixie is a severed head who does not wish to be a severed head. Lack of carcass exposes the benefit it was. There had been good times when Trixie had possessed such. Crushing and cutting out black red vitality for the hunger. She couldn’t or wouldn’t stop the killing. They decided to kill her. They did a terrible job. Trixie had given her best complaints at the time. Then they hoisted her up here. The cut was not clean, if was cut. Maybe she was hung and it came off. Maybe it was twisted off. Maybe they gathered around and tore the head off with their own hooves. Method matters little. Bits of gore still string down from remains of her neck.
Trixie is a severed head that does not sway in the breeze. The air is cool and there is no wind. It caresses the skin and tingles exposed nerves. Trixie sneers at the idiots that will never know the tingle of exposed insides. They would not notice if they did feel it. Dull eyes worn skin hurrying on fearfully to or from. She hurries nowhere. If up to her the others would neither, a rotting heap. She did not intend to stop killing. They made that choice for her. It is not a life decision. They have no life, only the scurry. She’d make them cry if still had a voice. Obscenities at the ready. If even one would only look she’d mouth the words. But none look. Rare occasion one begins as if to glance up toward her. But none look. Days or weeks pass between such occurrences. It still does not matter.
Trixie is a severed head without a care whether she is observed. They can keep their eyes. Lungs and bladders and words as well. She hears the babbling and is grateful it is not directed toward her. Does not mind if forever without another. But she can see the others below. She does not see her lamp post but imagines it to be an improved view. Improved view would be a mirror. Trixie is beautiful in the light. Trixie is beautiful in the dark. Beautiful with a body. Beautiful without a body. Trixie has herself and that is great. Yet still the miss of demising screams and heartless corpses at her feet.
Trixie is a severed head that can no longer kill. Hanging suspended from the lamp post. They tried to kill her but messed the job. Too eager. Disapproving masks are their favorite but their haste is the confession. Blood tastes much better with a side of excuse. The clutter knows what it came for. This clutter before her knows where it is going. Not all melt into the distance. Some others enter buildings. Trixie watches stained wall and soiled street slowly rust. The buildings do not collapse and they exit. Maybe she will die before the buildings collapse. Little hope there. Days or weeks pass and the buildings do not collapse.
Trixie is a severed head among other corpses on her street. On uncommon occasions Trixie sees another halt and kill another. Then it is dismembered and strung up such as her. Or she does not see another kill another and another is dismembered and strung up such as her. With differing death wounds and limbs but Trixie does not look at most other corpses. They are poor company. On the street commotioners pretend there are no corpses hanging from the lamp posts or windows or flagpoles until it is their turn. Count of corpses seems on the increase. The clutter losing patience. Maybe someday every other will be alive if not dead. But there will never be company. All are too far apart. Gray ever clouded but will not rain. Trixie is too far ahead of the curve. On the street worms pretend. Trixie is a severed head watching alone from her lamp post.
