Ignorance is Bliss

“We are horrible people,” she sighed, taking a pull off her cigarette.

“Ah.” He kissed her cheek, lacing a scarred hand through her dainty one. “But we know it, and this makes us good. The beauty of it is this, no?”

She shook her head, curls whipping violently in the summer air. “No-- I… I do not know. Does saying we are bad make us good, if as we proclaim that goodness a sinister part of my body grins and giddily twirls its fingers at the idea?” A single tear slid from that severely manicured, well-loved cheek. “The answer to this question I… I do not know.”

“But that is it, my love!” He jumped from the settee, bare chest heaving with excited delight “You may not know, but I do! I have counted--”

From his pocket emerged an envelope filled to bursting with paper of all different shades: turquoise, lavender, saffron, sylvan.

They were endless.

“These, our savings! And we have here…” He shuffled them between his palms, each word louder and more excitable than its predecessor.

“Charity!” A scarlet scrap.

“Love!” That one was royal blue.

“We have faith-- and… and kindness!” He snarled, teeth bared in pleasure.

“There is goodwill, and joy, and peace and patience and gentleness!” Cobalt, maroon, sunshine, peach, and teal dribbled from his fingers, seeping into the carpet.

Up she got, feverishly wrapping a costly shawl around her small and ghostly frame. Lips trembling, she cried, “And now you have dropped them! They-- they have gone from us.”

She scratched at the floor for what had been lost, all emotion run away from her face.

“Wait! Oh, wait!” A spark. “Self-control! We have not lost it as of yet. Tell me, dear. Wherever did you hide it away?”

As a fox to its prey she leapt for the envelope and began pecking. Over and under and inside out she turned it, but to no avail.

“We…” he laughed. “We do not have self-control! You think us so fragile to waste precious time making such a useless thing? No!” He stalked toward her and though she tried to crawl from him, he was too big. Too great for her to best, and soon he was sat atop her, holding her by the chest as her heart thrummed like that of a bird

“You do not have need for such pretty things. Not as any one of us. You wanted to see proof of our goodness, and in doing so have lost the very thing that made you so.”

“I--I do not understand! Dear,” she breathed.

“Dear, darling, love… These words mean nothing. You say them for the fashion of the thing.”

In his hand was a knife, sharp and bright and cunning, so cunning. It frightened her so that she could not help but scream.

She screamed and screamed until her voice went hoarse, but nothing came.

“Bad form, dear. It is bad form to ask for proof of things that have none.” He flicked the knife to her neck, clicking his tongue. “Very bad form, indeed.”

“I--I only wondered--”

The knife began cutting--

“Stop it! Stop--! I asked just one--please, stop it!” She sobbed, choking.

But he did not stop. The knife kept cutting and cutting until it sliced right through.

As he looked at her she saw the pain it caused. She saw the disappointment, the fear, perhaps even a part of the rage.

She saw no resentment.

Not as the blood dripped from his neck to her blouse.

Not as his eyes lost what light they had known.

Not as she ripped the knife from him and stood, sweet-smelling wiping sweat from her brow.

“We are,” she took another pull, the smoke dancing off her lips and into the moonlight as she sat on that lovely settee. “We are such horrible people.”