Satisfaction

Standard

A blog prompt from Accentuate Writers

The moment I knew I wasn’t satisfied was… when her head bounced off the platform a second time. Corpses could be incredibly frustrating, as I was learning with depressing regularity. Was it too much to ask, a little poise, a little co-operation?

The exhibition was opening in six hours and the damn corpse simply would not stay in the position I required. How could ‘The Art of the Theatre Macabre’ be the critical success I needed if corpses started slumping out of place or, worse yet, onto champagne quaffing critics?

I grabbed a handful of elaborately coiffured hair, tugged determinedly and finally got the gently decaying body of a minor blonde starlet to drape poignantly over the lap of my Romeo, who had a tendency to give off a rather pungent aroma of putrification, having been shot by an extremely angered critic during a lamentable performance of the Bard’s romantic epic.

The tableau finally as I wished, I stood back and surveyed the results of my labours. Seven scenes from various staged efforts by the Theatre Macabre Company, each of which had ended with the spectacular, and actual, death of a cast member; not all planned, but all wonderful publicity. They were at the height of their fame and I had eagerly jumped aboard the gravy train. This latest show, my agent assured me, would catapult my name into the annals of art history.

Everything was in place, right down to the face masks to be handed out with the champagne as guests arrived; there was no denying the vitality of the performers’ scents. Still, something was off and I could not feel the sense of satisfaction which only came with the perfection of a job completed beyond parallel. I trailed around a couple of times, adjusting a drape to hide the unidentified fluid draining down the leg of one artiste, combing hair over the maggot infestation in the eye socket of another, but no, something screamed its absence.

With the clock ticking faster than I believed possible I decided to rise above, quite literally. I clambered up the scaffolding which gave onto a platform overlooking the exhibit in its entirety. Sidling across the narrow walkway, I grabbed the rail and peered over. I’d forgotten how much I had handled the essential essence of my subjects, their fluids and fats coating my hands. Too late now, my hands slipping, my body sliding under the rail and free-falling into the air.

My last thought, as my throat constricted, caught in the table of wires fueling the lighting rig was; ‘I am God, surveying my creation and deeming it good.’

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