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dot dot dot
I have a dot.
I have a dot, and you can feel its warmth from ten feet away, nine, eight, seven, six. You could see it too, if so inclined- the blood’s bold, the runniness of the anemic blood falling from the sole of my palm into the fray of the grass, the burrow of the ground. The scent falls from the heavens, up above and down below, breaking through the barrier of the fresh and young.
I’m not simply delusional- there’s a dot there, can’t you see it?
If there hadn’t been so much of a fight, so much of a barbaric struggle, then perhaps there’d only be a sliver, a microscopic bead of torn, irritated flesh amongst the haven of virgin skin. The funny little consistency is that there was a fight and the ugly thing stabbed back when I tried to stab it. It’s funny because who’da thought a disabled thing like that could retaliate, even hold a knife?
It’s funny because it’s not funny and the whole thing was just a huge mess to clean for the lady and/or sir who musta regretted coming to work that day.
That disabled thing, a mom to one and a sister to me, she sits in that damn kitchen corner with the pills close by and the baby crying in the background.
I only wanted to help, the good little sissy I am.
The Cold War is over, m’am.
So, it’s about three in the morning and in that tiny little apartment I came strolling in after a call from the neighbors down below, and my sister sits her agony and angst. Her blonde hair is in this dirty clump around her head. It’d be poetic if she were to be character in a film, but the thing is she’s not. Her depression is just another tick off the list and another agony to be dealt with.
There’s a conversation, yeah. Mostly one sided from me. Mostly pushed forward by me, too.
The baby wouldn’t stop screaming, and halfway through I figure there’s no better time to commit a pleasant murder than with the abundance of a childish disposition.
I did her cheeks, first.
The funny thing is when everything hurts, nothing hurts at all.
The blade glided and glided, and for a second she didn’t even flinch. But then she jerked, jagging the pretty little line.
“Jesus, sister,” I breathe out, extracting the knife, pulling it through the flesh. “You mucked it up.”
“I’m sorry,” She mutters from beneath her beehive of hair. “I do that with everything.”
She’s such a characterture of everything, ever.
And with that jet of blood down her face, she finally decided to fight back.
It’s a bit like an amateurish serial art painting, with the whole struggling around with blood thing in the air. There’s a slice there, slice there, puncture there. Point is, we’re both pretty involved in the ‘fighting for life’ thing, even if one of us hadn’t concerned themselves with for a pretty good long while.
Point is, I win but in the midst of things she had pinned a little mouse hole right in my palm.
I guess that’s where you found me, mopping the kitchen floor but taking a break in the chair, still warm from my sister’s heart-shaped ass.
Can you see the dot? And before you answer, the knife’s still in my pocket and the baby’s not dead yet, but I can always rearrange things. Nothing’s too far set in stone.