Vodka Drawn Cold

Ron Koppelberger

Vodka Drawn Cold

Del Ivy guided the icy vodka shot to his expectant lips. The silent, perfect alliance of moted dust and dirty lace curtains gave special attention to the yellow glow of sunshine silhouette. The spears of swirling light touched the pleated skirt of Hilda Lesser; she lay immobile on the wooden floor, burnished crimson in leaking pools. Del sipped, remembering the fray, the wild throe of angry surprise. Hilda had handed him the parchment, the aged scroll of sought after magic’s. She had coughed, “ Take it you crumb, take it!” she had insisted. The quality of light in the tiny apartment had gone from glowing to darkness and ash, he had whispered,
“Alive, alive.” Hilda hadn’t heard him, “Alive.” he repeated.
The papyrus was ancient, a spell, a pharos salvation. Del’s eyes had crinkled up near the corners. Hilda had paused in quiet expectation,
“Now where’s my money?” she hissed in greedy desire.
As he sipped the Vodka cold he twirled the long silver hook between his thumb and index finger. The hook was stained scarlet and a tiny bead dripped from the curved edge.
He had waited an eternity for the scroll, denied birth, denied the secret, denied the conclave of the scroll; it had ended up in the Museum of Ancient History where Hilda worked as a tour guide.
She lay still, silent, dead near his feet. He had prepared and the herbs were combined and placed by her waiting lips. He had removed her brain through her nasal cavity according to the tradition; the hook had done it’s work as he inserted it over and over again.
He sipped; he had waited for the right moment, the right woman and he felt as if he could conquer the world. Hilda was the first.
She sat up, blood matted her hair flat and congealed on one side. She stared sightlessly forward, toward the darkening horizon, toward the will of a sanguine spirit.
“ Go and clean yourself up Hilda.” Del commanded. Finding her feet she disappeared into the bathroom. He listened to the sound of water running in the bathroom sink as he imagined the swirl of blood in the drain; he saw a tempest, inevitable, unwavering in desire and essence.