He is a liar. “Now that I know you,” the Scorpion had sworn, “I can never unknow you. Should you ever leave me lonely, I promise I will not live.”

But he is still breathing, five thousand miles away, brooding beneath the rolling grey skies that belong to my darling seaside city. I often imagine his oath fulfilled.

I see him drunk with grief and stinking of Irish whiskey, standing on the rocky coast and shaking his fist at silvery swells. In a grandiose fashion suitable to his goddamned ego, he strikes the empty bottle against the rocks and with a crude edge of green tinted glass, he spills his blood. His life rushes out of him in crimson bursts, staining his clothes, his flesh, and the earth beneath him. There is no panic. He makes no move to close the laceration. He simply moans a guttural gurgle, staggers and falls dead right there on the beach.

In the moonlight, his smooth white face is beautiful, like cracked porcelain streaked with radiant red.