Zebra

“What’s black and white and red all over?  A zebra with a punctured artery!  Oh, I know it’s morbid.  You were expecting something trite like ‘it’s a newspaper.’ Then we would all pretend to laugh at the supposed wit.  But guess what, that’s not life.  Life is dirty and bloody.  Its a zebra bleeding out on the dry grass of the Serengeti as a lion rips into the stringy muscle of its thigh.  Life is horrifying.”

Janet took a long drag on her cigarette. The room had grown silent as her comments had slowly rippled through the party like a fat, ugly stone dropped on the calms lake surface of polite society.  It was what she wanted.

“The zebra is not dead yet,” she continued.  The heat from Tasha’s eyes was pleasantly warm on Janet’s pale shoulder.  Her host scowled harder and Janet smiled slightly.  “No, death won’t come for minutes.  But they will feel like hours.  The lions will feast.  The zebra feeling every bite, every lick.  Excruciating pain.  And the blood…”

A blonde covered her mouth and ran toward the bathroom, knocking over a bottle of merlot on the way and ruining the moment.  The spell was broken.  The guests went back to their happier conversations – one or two risking concerned glances at the strange woman in the corner telling horror stories.  Janet sighed as the clamor of conversation picked up around her.  The only one still paying any attention to her was Tasha.

Janet flicked the cigarette ash onto the beige carpet under her feet.  “Sister” she said, taking another drag.