Cigarette Bitter Perfume (fiction)
Cigarette bitter perfume held my hand like a lost child. Mate, a strong uruguayan herbal tea
drunk from a calabash gourd sits at my desk to aid my thirst and keep me company.
Encircled by numbed and despondent colleagues as we penalised illegal parkers and
speeders for yet another day. The stale ambience of the station revived alight by a major
affair. The once mummified like staff now diverted their attention to the loudspeaker
instructing the forensic and homicide department to make their way to the city’s base
hospital immediately. Those summoned departed methodically ,whilst the others
recommenced their tedious duties.
The kaleidoscope of flora from the sympathetic lay in front of the derelict building, while the
massed assortment of press, police and security turned a simple task of entering the hospital
into a feat in itself. People linked to the incident were filtered from the curious and granted
entry.
A long passage, bare blanked and dusty, directed me to the mayhem. The doors that led to
the room where the mysterious affair occurred invariably opened and closed as people of
importance came and went . A vulgar paper adorned the walls, age’s touch had striped it,
exposing a dated yellow plaster. The once airy room had a solitary window entrapped by
thick metal bars and dust. The TV broadcasted customary news of a struggling economy in
the background. A lone candy wrapper adorned the worn tile flooring. The den teeming with
yellow caution tape and smelling of sterilizer. Hospital Britanico, still the best in town , had
seen better days back in the 1940s, when Uruguay lived more prosperous days.
These details I observed afterwards. My attention allured by the motionless figure lying upon
a lone bed situated in the centre of the room. It was a woman of early 30’s, petite, with long,
brown hair, a fair and delicate look and dressed in a hospital gown. Her features, a tell tale of
her uruguayan ethnicity and youth. Around her arm dozens of red, raw needle marks spotted
her skin. Her body was slightly glistening as if she had only just met death and a scent lively
perfumed. All the deceased’s limbs were rigid and stern as though her death struggle had
been a merciless one. Her once fair face proclaimed a murder of horror , an expression so
giving, that it assured me she had foreseen her fate before it came upon her. Many deaths I
had seen in my lifetime, yet none appeared in such a fearsome aspect than that in that
gloomy hospital room.
The death of a young women on the bright side of recovery in hospital fueled a frenzy that
the media devoured like a pack of hungry wolves . Citizens released theories trying to get
their fat hands on short lived fame. In a materialistic society fame was craved by many.
Maria Rocha was member of the minor class of high school and university educated
individuals. This prosperity lead Maria to a highly regarded position as a bank manager with
even higher career prospects. ...
