She was left on her own

She was left on her own, pondering the meaning--or rather lack of meaning--of existence. Yes. It bothered her. It shook her to the bones. Blood possibly curdling while one red cell pushed another forward while moving along inside a vain (sic). He didn't know her. He didn't know of her. But his recent passing gave her the chills. Teeth-chattering, knee-knocking chills. She placed herself in his room, looking up at the feet (that connected to the legs then to the pelvis, then to the torso, then to the arms...) dangling from above. She stared qute (sic) a while then moved to touch his clothing. She moved him. Swung him from left to right. Twisted the rope that hung him out to dry thrice. And then let go. The rope unravelled (sic) and so did he. It wasn't a sick or demented mind that made her playful with his hanging corpse. Rather, it was curiosity. A curiosity that made her look up at the unblinking eyes (attached to the head, attached to the neck...) that looked down on her. The irony. He was dead. But she was "on top." Like an angel wiping a cloud clean and peering down below, he stared. And she responded. A staring content, apparently, that neither of them could lose.

- A college notebook find,

probably September 2008