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..well, I'll be damned they've finally gone and done it then...well, good for Cyn; she deserves it...by the way, have you seen the first rushes yet?" and so it goes, the small-talk people make, even at funerals, the chitchat they generate clustered around sickbeds, and deathbeds, the pointless albeit essential buzz they doubtless made on the walk back from the crematoriums in the concentration camps, the firing-squads, the death marches, too... Tears have meanwhile dried in my thickly-applied make-up, so thickly-applied, in fact, that it's like a mask of sludge, so thick, to be precise, it's like my face is under an inch of mud; why, I wonder. Why--this heavy-handed, intentionally inexpert job? It's theatrical make-up, that's why, corpse make-up, that's what I suddenly realize, puddinged on the way they prepare the dead, or the slow dancing actress portraying an archetype of death on stage, her face emotionless, unblemished, vacant--serene, by which I mean to say, soulless,. The small room contained a cot bed, a television set, a chair and table but nothing else."I won't restrain you in any way," the towering man told the frightened girl. "So please, stay put. Read, rest. If you feel like banging on these walls, go ahead. Knock yourself out. This whole room is soundproof. Sam here is going to stay here to keep you company. I should warn you that he won't let you get close to the ladder without my permission, so don't try it, okay."Kimberly pouted as her fear mounted, her eyes shifting from the tall black man and the white Labrador. She had found the animal friendly when she was in the tow truck, but now she could see that it was impressive in size."Are... are you going to hurt me?" She asked."No, of course not," he said with a smile, then with a clap of his hands, he added. "Well, I gotta go."And he proceeded to climb up the ladder to the opening they had just come down from. Kimberly sat down heavily on the bed near tears. Then she heard the heavy hatch.
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