bottle.’
‘Fruits? A bottle? May I go in?’ Santiago said.
‘You got this far without my permission, why ask now?’
‘Excellent!’ Santiago said, rubbing his hands together. He walked around to the door and into the room. Manolin followed.
Two male ichthyocentaur lay on top of separate operating tables, their arms by their sides. Their chests had been sliced open from the base of their necks to their genitals, which had caused a musky odour. Metal clamps held tissue apart. Skin was pulled away from the incision, revealing a bloodied rib cage. Their organs were intact, and much of their blood had been removed, stored in large canisters that stood behind them. Their facial expressions were calm, their eyes closed.
Santiago studied their anatomy and made expressions of wonder. He moved in close to their open torsos and sniffed the flesh. ‘They came from warmer seas,’ he said, probably to himself. He walked to the table with the belongings, while Manolin stared at the cold dead forms.
Santiago found the bottle, which was dark, unopened, with a plant seal blocking the neck. There were medical instruments around the room, and so he picked up a pair of tweezers, poking the seal down into the bottle. After minutes of fiddling he pulled out a piece of paper. He glanced out of the glass panel to the Mayor, who stood with only two armed men, their muskets lowered to their sides now. Santiago looked again at the paper. It was coarse and grainy, made from basic sources, more like a plant. The kind that they used to make old notebooks out of, years ago. He unfolded it and called Manolin over, placing the bottle back down onto the table.
Manolin said, ‘Come on, put us out of our misery. What’s it say?’
Manolin unlocked the door to his home, walked in quietly, a million pre-prepared excuses for why he was late flashing in his mind. He closed the door, headed into the sitting room. He glanced up at the moonlight through the gap in the curtain. The light shone onto a small table in the centre of the room, where two glasses sparkled. He took a step closer and saw only one had lipstick on. There was an ashtray beside, the embers of two cigarettes were placed at opposite ends. Manolin blinked, turned to walk to his bedroom. His heart began to ache. He heard noises from behind the door and paused.
With some dread, he pushed down on the handle and opened the door.
He saw the back of a tall man. It was bigger, more muscular than his. He was standing behind Manolin’s wife. She was bent over the bed, her legs apart, her arms resting on the mattress. Her hair had fallen over her face and was touching the sheets. They were both naked, wore only the light of one small candle that wavered in the corner. A cold gust filled the room. They both turned around, slowly. These details were captured as images in his mind.
Manolin’s eyes were wide. His mouth fell open as if to say something, but nothing came out. The other man pulled the bed sheets up over himself. Manolin’s wife stepped behind her lover for cover.
Manolin’s heart seemed to stop. He felt his stomach turn, sink. Everything his marriage had been was brought to his eyes in the moment. His throat felt thick, preventing words from escaping, if they could have been much use to him.
‘Manny, I didn’t think you’d be back. It’s not what it looks like, I swear,’ she said, her voice faltering a little.
Manolin grunted a laugh. It’s not what it looks like, indeed, he thought. He walked over to the wardrobe to his right. It was far enough away from the bed so he did not need to walk past this other man. He pulled down a large canvass bag, proceeded to fill it with clothes. He felt impressed that he had not broken down yet.
She said, ‘Manny, aren’t you going to say anything?’
No reply.
‘I think you’d better leave now,’ she said to her lover, who was stumbling whilst putting on his clothes. He glanced to her one last time before opening the door
‘Fruits? A bottle? May I go in?’ Santiago said.
‘You got this far without my permission, why ask now?’
‘Excellent!’ Santiago said, rubbing his hands together. He walked around to the door and into the room. Manolin followed.
Two male ichthyocentaur lay on top of separate operating tables, their arms by their sides. Their chests had been sliced open from the base of their necks to their genitals, which had caused a musky odour. Metal clamps held tissue apart. Skin was pulled away from the incision, revealing a bloodied rib cage. Their organs were intact, and much of their blood had been removed, stored in large canisters that stood behind them. Their facial expressions were calm, their eyes closed.
Santiago studied their anatomy and made expressions of wonder. He moved in close to their open torsos and sniffed the flesh. ‘They came from warmer seas,’ he said, probably to himself. He walked to the table with the belongings, while Manolin stared at the cold dead forms.
Santiago found the bottle, which was dark, unopened, with a plant seal blocking the neck. There were medical instruments around the room, and so he picked up a pair of tweezers, poking the seal down into the bottle. After minutes of fiddling he pulled out a piece of paper. He glanced out of the glass panel to the Mayor, who stood with only two armed men, their muskets lowered to their sides now. Santiago looked again at the paper. It was coarse and grainy, made from basic sources, more like a plant. The kind that they used to make old notebooks out of, years ago. He unfolded it and called Manolin over, placing the bottle back down onto the table.
Manolin said, ‘Come on, put us out of our misery. What’s it say?’
Manolin unlocked the door to his home, walked in quietly, a million pre-prepared excuses for why he was late flashing in his mind. He closed the door, headed into the sitting room. He glanced up at the moonlight through the gap in the curtain. The light shone onto a small table in the centre of the room, where two glasses sparkled. He took a step closer and saw only one had lipstick on. There was an ashtray beside, the embers of two cigarettes were placed at opposite ends. Manolin blinked, turned to walk to his bedroom. His heart began to ache. He heard noises from behind the door and paused.
With some dread, he pushed down on the handle and opened the door.
He saw the back of a tall man. It was bigger, more muscular than his. He was standing behind Manolin’s wife. She was bent over the bed, her legs apart, her arms resting on the mattress. Her hair had fallen over her face and was touching the sheets. They were both naked, wore only the light of one small candle that wavered in the corner. A cold gust filled the room. They both turned around, slowly. These details were captured as images in his mind.
Manolin’s eyes were wide. His mouth fell open as if to say something, but nothing came out. The other man pulled the bed sheets up over himself. Manolin’s wife stepped behind her lover for cover.
Manolin’s heart seemed to stop. He felt his stomach turn, sink. Everything his marriage had been was brought to his eyes in the moment. His throat felt thick, preventing words from escaping, if they could have been much use to him.
‘Manny, I didn’t think you’d be back. It’s not what it looks like, I swear,’ she said, her voice faltering a little.
Manolin grunted a laugh. It’s not what it looks like, indeed, he thought. He walked over to the wardrobe to his right. It was far enough away from the bed so he did not need to walk past this other man. He pulled down a large canvass bag, proceeded to fill it with clothes. He felt impressed that he had not broken down yet.
She said, ‘Manny, aren’t you going to say anything?’
No reply.
‘I think you’d better leave now,’ she said to her lover, who was stumbling whilst putting on his clothes. He glanced to her one last time before opening the door
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