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.