87 Votes
1262
Views
Views
Chapter 2:- Chapter 2
One day, another day, perhaps a whole year. You wake up, walk the dog, sing in the shower la la la. You have a muffin for breakfast, perhaps a slice of melon. You cleanse your face, you have been crying all night. How sad. How beautiful. How odd.
One day, perhaps three more. Your father telephones. You tell him you have been reloading bullets all afternoon. You pretend that was a joke. Ha. Ha. You are sad. You spend some time crying over the telephone and the telephone responds with a low buzz and then a dial tone. Your father has a habit of hanging up when he is uncomfortable and later saying there was a problem with the phone. You call your mother, your mother cries with you but can only talk about herself. You call your uncle, your grandmother, your best friend. All of them react differently when you cry and you do not say, “I think I killed someone and will have to kill more people,” and no one asks so no one will ever know.
One or five days, it doesn’t matter. You shower off the blood. You spend some time in front of the mirror, thinking “nice face, but could stand to lose a few pounds on the hips,” which makes you laugh because your hips are wide but sharp. You make yourself some tea. Tea doesn’t help. You hold the mug as if it is your grief and the tea is your body. You don’t know what to do.
One year later, maybe one month later, maybe seven days or four. You bend down to your dog and say, “good dog,” and he wags his tail and maybe pees himself a little, he is so excited. You take him for a walk and you don’t use a leash and you think, “I dare you to cross me,” to anyone you pass. It doesn’t make you feel any better, but it makes you feel dangerous in a safe way, the way danger used to feel- very untouchable and on CNN.
Perhaps tomorrow. You spend a lot of time by yourself. You spend a lot of time by yourself in front of the television, but it is not on. You are sitting on the couch. Your hair looks very nice, you just got it highlighted. You are sitting on the couch and crying. Nothing new. Crying. You are sitting on the couch and crying and holding a black bag filled with something secret and terrible. You are starting to feel like someone is watching you, wanting to touch your new hairdo and shoulders. You are crying, nothing new. Nothing new. You open the black bag and you don’t even scream anymore when you see it, just a sharp intake of breath and then a sigh.
One day, another day, perhaps a whole year. You wake up, walk the dog, sing in the shower la la la. You have a muffin for breakfast, perhaps a slice of melon. You cleanse your face, you have been crying all night. How sad. How beautiful. How odd.
One day, perhaps three more. Your father telephones. You tell him you have been reloading bullets all afternoon. You pretend that was a joke. Ha. Ha. You are sad. You spend some time crying over the telephone and the telephone responds with a low buzz and then a dial tone. Your father has a habit of hanging up when he is uncomfortable and later saying there was a problem with the phone. You call your mother, your mother cries with you but can only talk about herself. You call your uncle, your grandmother, your best friend. All of them react differently when you cry and you do not say, “I think I killed someone and will have to kill more people,” and no one asks so no one will ever know.
One or five days, it doesn’t matter. You shower off the blood. You spend some time in front of the mirror, thinking “nice face, but could stand to lose a few pounds on the hips,” which makes you laugh because your hips are wide but sharp. You make yourself some tea. Tea doesn’t help. You hold the mug as if it is your grief and the tea is your body. You don’t know what to do.
One year later, maybe one month later, maybe seven days or four. You bend down to your dog and say, “good dog,” and he wags his tail and maybe pees himself a little, he is so excited. You take him for a walk and you don’t use a leash and you think, “I dare you to cross me,” to anyone you pass. It doesn’t make you feel any better, but it makes you feel dangerous in a safe way, the way danger used to feel- very untouchable and on CNN.
Perhaps tomorrow. You spend a lot of time by yourself. You spend a lot of time by yourself in front of the television, but it is not on. You are sitting on the couch. Your hair looks very nice, you just got it highlighted. You are sitting on the couch and crying. Nothing new. Crying. You are sitting on the couch and crying and holding a black bag filled with something secret and terrible. You are starting to feel like someone is watching you, wanting to touch your new hairdo and shoulders. You are crying, nothing new. Nothing new. You open the black bag and you don’t even scream anymore when you see it, just a sharp intake of breath and then a sigh.
