Felicia Tapestry

God's honest truth, her name was Felicia Tapestry.

Her fourth great grandfather was an impoverished thread bare curtain merchant. Since he came from a family which was known for this, the other children called him a serial drapist behind his back.

I'd rather not go into their various deaths. I suspect they also melted ants with magnifying lenses.

I'm a Calvinist. They deserved it.

But I digress...

Her name was Felicia Tapestry.

It was a hot sweaty day, a day I'd rather remember. The meat in the broken down freezer had already melted and smelt of death. The blood had leaked onto my kitchen floor and was surprisingly hard to clean up. Different bloods melt at different temperatures.

That was helpful advice going forward.

Tapestries are such beautiful weaves, interspersed with threads from every hue. Sometimes from simple cotton, sometimes from elegant silk. I prefer raw fabrics rough hewn, like Scottish clothing no one likes to wear, except to avoid freezing to death or starvation.

She was wicked cute, but in that dark serial killer way we all love. You know, like Christina Ricci like, except worse.

She wore her gown with pride, flowing across the floor, glorious in all its splendor. We each called each other fascinating. Yeah, it was THAT kinda romance.

The frame of reference of our romance framed us in ways we dare not share with others. After all, her name was Felicia Tapestry, and she was a death shroud comforting me with hugs. I immediately recognized that she had inherited the realm in her family line, filtering the flinty lilt of hints of bitter shrouds, hovering over us, against the light. Yet the darkness comforts us so. It comforts us so.