When the Dead Speak

Anger tasted bitter. It was overwhelming; it started at the tip of the tongue but rarely finished at the end. It spread throughout my body as it spread throughout his.

Memories trickled into my mind with the taste of his skin in my mouth. I was constructing the picture of his life and he was the paint, brush and canvas. But this is what we did. We ate and we examined. Once I taste the lies on his lips and the itch on his skin, a picture of the man that he once was will form before me. I'll cast a judgement over every step he took, look he cast and word he spoke.

I'll send him to hell.

One day I might send you there too, if you taste like it.