Those of us not murdered, die more slowly.
Some fireworks are gunshots.
New rental. The bulb burns out. I climb the kitchen stool to replace it, one hand
on top the cupboard. Fingertips brush dusty bullets.
When I’m not most worried about me, I’m most worried about you.
An emptied purse covered in dew. The prostitute’s corner, vacant.
New rental. While my children sleep, the downstairs neighbours cook long
into the night. The sugary scent of crack floats up through the vents.
No one knows they’re a murderer until it’s too late.
Above the Christmas carols, the drunk driver’s crash—deafening.
New rental. Scent of dried roses. Blood once covered the walls. They’ve repainted now,
but the pipes still run red.
The old neighbour died of loneliness. His body lay in the plaid bed for weeks before anyone noticed. The house is for rent now.
New rental. Excited, my daughter finds a treasure in the yard to give to me.
The victim’s lost earring. A raven pressed into silver.
The murdered want to tell us how they died. Like you, I try not to hear. I close all doors to my mind. But she arrives anyway. Knocking on a door in a dream, pointing to her cracked chest blooming with blood. Like this, she says. He did it like this.
From subTerrain #68 (Pulp Fiction)