where the writers are
Invisible Poison

I shut all the doors and windows. They say in such a sealed environment people are more likely to die of carbon dioxide poisoning than from lack of oxygen. I wasn’t courting death (I don’t court anything, it does the wooing!)…just wanted to test the level of carbon whatever.

Lying on the bed I breathed hard adding to the poison in the air. There was no way to measure, though. Surprisingly, despite the heat and sultry weather, I wasn’t sweating.

There was the crow cawing outside; I imagined it becoming a vulture and pecking at my flesh. I wondered if the salt was just right… I poked my nail into my palm; there was sensation. I was alive.

Then I found the culprit. From the bottom of the door I could see some light. The curtain at the window moved slightly, which meant some air was coming in. Nothing closes completely, does it?

There were keyholes, vents. There was life.

The enlightenment and knowledge I would have acquired from this carbon dioxide versus oxygen one-upmanship was denied to me.

I don’t even know what poison looks like, feels like. I spray the one, a fragrance with this name, from a bottle on my pulse points. The scent is so strong, it could kill.

I wash my hands with antiseptic soap until I realise the deadly scent has reached my nostrils not my wrists. I pinch my nose tight; the cheeks turn pink.

Is poison rosy?