There’s Blood In The House
You are a crime scene. Chalk outline. Yellow tape. Blood river runs. Before the mess you made in the bedroom, you’re barefaced and lonely. Eating dry cereal out of boxes. You are neither lucky nor charmed. Instead, your face is turbulent. A body tumbling into the black ocean. A mother ties her son to a chair is the headline everyone reads on the website everyone hates. While they ask for how long, what kind of rope, and what’s the son’s condition, a mother in North Dakota types but why.
You remember a hard fist. Chiclet teeth rattling in cages. You’re not the kind of woman who learns her lesson.
It’s winter and you walk around with two black umbrellas covering your eyes because you’re in hiding, a kind of witness protection for the bereaved. The four friends you have left tell you that you’re laying it on pretty thick — even for you. What are you mourning? My former life. The version of you filled with possibility. You were a comma, an exclamation point, possibly a semi-colon, but now you’re a period. End of sentence.
Is there a hashtag for the funeral? Open or closed casket? Your sighs are Byzantine. Everyone’s a laugh riot, your friends are comedians.
At home, you mop up the mess while dancing the Macarena. Everyone thinks you’re dead — motherfuckers are already talking about you in the past tense — and you tell everyone in a five-mile radius the obituary’s premature. False alarm! Nobody can hear you because no one talks anymore. We’re particles double-clicking. We Facebook. We Gram. We Pin. We Tok. Sometimes, we Tick. The days resemble dark matter and repeat themselves with minor variations.
You decide to write a syllabus for the journey ahead. Every day has become a Halloween and you’ve grown accustomed to seeing everyone’s terrifying medical-grade masks and multiple costume changes.
You can’t remember the last time you wore pants.
Do all of this in no discernible order, they say. But first, suit up and strap in. Affix the mask over your face. Forget the others — clawing children climbing over seats, couples…