The Story of Flesh & Iron

It started over twelve years ago. Flesh met Iron. The moon a twinkle caressing the navy blue cloud spotted sky. New to town, looking for a friend in low places, finding the companionship of her Iron. She was living in a run-down building that hookers frequented. Drug dealers slung their dope, and no one dares peep a word of the darkness that lurk behind the doors of those beaten up rickety shack of apartments. Littered with graffiti and garbage, she hid behind her leather hood attached to the leather skin of a coat that covered her half-dressed body. Herself, a fiery red-haired sultry woman, with pale white ivory skin, smooth like satin. She was tethered with tattoos marking her thoughts with ink in her skin.

Her once love for doctoring up wounded forest animals in her mother's shed left her with a sigh for death as her childhood was made of trapping animals. Being one with nature was the highlight in medically assisting dying squirrels and playing with Ouija boards. Howling to the moon full in harvest or admiring animals through a spotting scope in the dead of night seemed her favourite pass times as a child. And as she grew, the witch in her was amplified by the lure to potions in combination with dabbling in magic. She reeked of supernatural and spiritual connections. Almost like she could sense or hear your thoughts-a woman in Flesh, a Goddess in spirit.

Her father a German man with a stern voice and old as bone. Her mother elegantly thin, plagued by a slow toxic cancer she barred till her last days.

Him a strong lad. The iron, the metal, the meat and blood and bones, to go with his flesh. She, with a dark a seductive, persuasive intellect. He with an ear for rhytham and stamina. He has long pulled-back hair, broad jawbone, husky and brave. The protector, the poet, the knight to his midnight queen. The two of them falling madly in love after only a few short months. Yet, she lived in the pit of despair.

Maybe that's why things went so horribly wrong?

It was late one evening; Flesh was waiting for Iron standing by the door of the ratty apartment complex she occupied. Cigarette pressed to her supple blood-red lips. Cheeks flushed from the cool October air. The exhales of her smoke danced like that of the smoke of a forest fire wafting in the air. Her stare dead as a man passing by makes some cheap remark. He was attempting his flattery on her. But, unfortunately, his sleazy comments were meeting deaf ears. Anyone that knows her knows she has no time for reality. She lives in a fantasy of sensuous after which a glace he come-hither.

He halts at her sight as he approaches her. He has met her a hundred times by now out front, just as such. Yet every time felt like the first time. Catching eyes, drenched in vibrations yearning for one another. The sexual tension was intensified because her trashy ripped jeans and half of an old Metalica T-shirt said it all. Filled with madness and hatred, she was bad. He knew it.

They fantasized together, dreaming of the days of forever where they would live in the years to come-indulging in poetry and sweet, simple moments. Taking refuge in their dungeon on the third floor of the scummy building she once puffed in front of, having no reason to wait any longer as they rarely left each other's sides.

Days turned into night, weeks, months, a year, then more. But something wasn't right with Iron. As fabulously different Flesh could be, Iron, the blood that ran through her, was tainted. Much darker than her. Playing head games, twisting her mind like a Rubik's cube. He was mean and cold. Able to hide the deepest of secrets behind his filthy beard. Like a mask in a robbery, is to money to the accomplice, he was the robber-the robber of her soul. As much as Flesh knew he loved her, she also knew he lusted for a different kind of rush. Not the sort of rush that drugs give you. The type only true crime provides you.

Often as time went on, Flesh would wake up to late-night noises and no Iron in her bed. Flesh began to find red spots of what she wanted to believe was lipstick, but she knew too much. She loved the imagination and fantasy thrills Iron spoke of. But it began to alter into a story of tales she believed were true.

One time was all it took to breathe God back in the Flesh before her sins would not be spared. Yet, for all the darkness she harboured, she was merely a twisted little girl. One who came to a crumble when Iron lay in bed and whisper words like ice on the grill. Sizzling chills riddle her with goosebumps.

"She had it was coming.." He began to tell a tale of death that is still unsolved today.

He told her that his father, a jail junky rapist, had picked up a hitchhiker. The older man wanted to keep her after they talked a while on their drive. She gets a phone call. "Where are we going?" She asked the older man. On the other end of the line, her brother hears her scream, crinkle crunch, and the phone goes dead. The old man pulled a gun from under his shirt. Iron was far too detailed about this particular fantasy. Flesh's curiosity behind the story's truth started to haunt her before she even heard what happened next.

"My father said we could have her; you want her baby, I have captured her heart, and she is ours to feast on." Flesh thought for sure this was his sick kinked up wild mind, grasping at her attention. But she notices blood under his fingertips. The lighting was dim, with few candles about. And it smelled of iron more so than it should. Flesh looks deep into Iron's eyes and says in a condescending tone, "Let's feast, my love." She fully expected him to climb up on her, kissing her neck. Pulling her long red hair out of the way, but no.

He reached for a black duffle bag he hid under the nightstand hours before.

Flesh wondered, "Would it be a piece of her?"

Iron says, "Oh NO!" This is the wrong bag. "Shit, what do I do?" In a frantic panic, he begins a state of hysteria. He's sweating bullets. "I messed up, my love." What, tell me what's wrong?" She demanded.

He calmed himself and said, "It was my Dad, not me!" She's dead. Flesh, now knowing without a shadow of a doubt that Iron's father killed a girl and she was about to see the skin of a cut-up body, disconnect from the world and enters into a state of haze. "I gave the duffle bag to your father Flesh, when I dropped off my hunting bag!". I meant to give him a bag of hunted game meat. But I have the game meat here. Both bags looked the same," he murmured with tears in his eyes. Flesh snaps out it." What is in the bag, Iron?" "Flesh," was the last thing he ever said.

The two parted ways after Flesh realized that the man she was with was lost. She couldn't find the poet, the protector, the warmth. All she felt was dismay radiating from his soul. They grew distant.

She mentioned that night to him years later, with an empty dried bloody duffle bag in hand, "Why?" But Iron denied ever saying any such thing, accusing Flesh of being high and a filthy slut. Pouring his hatred at her. Flesh did take the bag to the police, but still the case remains unsolved.

Flesh will always no the truth, but no believes her. This is why there is true crime in this world.

If you have information related to this murder mystery please contact your local authorities.

Opal