I see The Rose fall—she falls to the sound of pulsing, bending collimated plasma—and I see that it is just. Away from me float those embedded feelings, those habitual reactions I should have bursting to the fore. But I don’t care for her anymore. How could I after what she did to my sweet.
The mechanic shoulders his blow-flamer and throws me a grin which I do not throw back. I think that somehow this act, this last cleansing of the demons of my past would allow my mind to sail free. But all I’ve done now is untether a mind that couldn’t work without control.
“She died well,” says the mechanic polishing the back of his hand with a rag. “Can’t believe she fell for you . . . How much did you pay her for this anyway Biscuit?”