I stand
there, the winter leaves falling slowly as they do, as that first drop of blood
let go of my fingertip, and drifted toward the earth. I am confound by
lightning in my eyes, as he holds the knife to her quivering neck.
This gun
has never weighed this much, and yet if I miss…
The
arabesque trails of ink along my daughters arm. That fucking tree of life,
marking her forever. When had my judgement slipped like this? This trigger of
sheer concrete, cold against my pulsing fingers. The fingers that drew that
dire amulet in the first place.
In this existence, the only real
Life is in Death.
Why do I
say this? Why should you care? You who read this will never know of the sheer
terror behind my eyes as my mind played tricks on me. I swear I could see those
fucking branches move along her arm, as if his serpent tongue had poisoned her
with demons when he’d kissed her forehead, looking at me all wild-eyed, foam in
the corners of his insane grin. He had snapped her spirit right under my nose.
But why would this world care?
There we
stand, dim lights in the sky rolling over us slowly, ever watchful. It seems to
think like we do, as it drifts aimlessly. Like those who are lost in the
necropolis of Love. Forlorn, yet driven to wander. This gun wasn’t going to shoot
itself.
He held her there, however, that blade gleaming
in the one silver strip of moonlight that dappled through the branches of the
tree above them. He had broken her arm, and she had decided, under her glazed
fear, that she would not even whimper about it. Lifeless tears welled up in her
eyes. The same eyes she had once turned toward Marie, when the police dragged
my wife away from the dinner table that night.
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