L'Enfer
Written for Kali.
He sat on a stone, in between slippery pearly-coloured mists, and waited. It was amusing. With his knife, he began scraping on the stone, spelling out French words: je suis mort.
At length he observed footsteps. He couldn't hear them, particularly as there was nothing to tread on but the slippery mists, but all the same he knew someone was coming. It was a boy, younger, perhaps, than he was, with a high proud face and a scar.
It wasn't a horrible scar. It was a big one, and it ran from one side of the boy's face to the other, but he'd seen worse scars before. He grinned.
The boy didn't seem to see him. "I'm dead," he said. He sounded surprised, but not frightened; perhaps a little confused.
Montparnasse lifted the rose from his buttonhole and smelled it, smiling, and then scraped on the rock: c'est l'Enfer.
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