(A Living Parable)

Once, in a lonely field of beautiful flowers, there stood a single Mighty Oak.

He was strong.

He was tall.

He was majestic.

The only time he spoke was when the wind blew through his branches and the words became a beautiful song.

The birds would sit upon him, singing along.

With his branches reaching for the sky, he spoke to the Creator of his loneliness and he waited patiently for an answer.

One day, the local farmer planted a Cherry Tree near the Mighty Oak.

She was young.

She was fragile.

She was insecure.

She would twitter away with the birds at the slightest breeze and they responded back in song while eating of her fruit.

The Mighty Oak fell in love with the Cherry Tree, knowing she was a gift from his Creator.

He would speak words of encouragement to the Cherry Tree to help her grow.

He would listen patiently to her knowing she was in the process of maturing.

He quietly showed her how to dig her roots deep into the ground and reach to the Sky in songs of joy.

The Cherry Tree found great comfort in the shadow of the Mighty Oak.

She loved him in return, and learned more of the Creator through him.

For many seasons they grew together in that beautiful field of flowers.

They sang with one another.

They talked about the deep mysteries of life with one another.

Their roots became entwined within one another.

One dark day, a mighty storm came.

The rains poured hard and loosened the ground.

As the winds tore through her branches, the Cherry Tree felt she would be blown away.

But as the storm raged against her, she remained anchored to the earth through the roots of the Mighty Oak.

She realized that after so many years together, they had become like a single tree underneath the ground.

Suddenly, the sky cracked and a light flashed.

The Cherry Tree looked up and saw that her Mighty Oak had been struck by lightning, catching on fire.

So she cried out for someone to save the Mighty Oak.

A downpour arose and put out the fire.

The Cherry Tree let out a sigh of relief, thankf ul for the rain.

As the days went by, the Mighty Oak became more and more silent.

His trunk was scarred from the lightning strike and his leaves began falling to the ground.

The breeze would blow through his branches but he no longer sang.

He just bowed in reverence.

So the Cherry Tree sang to him, and the birds came to rest on his branches.

They sang along with the Cherry Tree and it made the Mighty Oak smile inside.

He tried to speak to the Cherry Tree the best he could, though her sadness made it hard for her to listen.

One clear day, the Mighty Oak whispered to the Cherry Tree telling her to trust the Creator in all things.

He told her she had become a strong and courageous tree through the storm.

The Cherry Tree thanked the Mighty Oak for helping her grow, that she would never forget his love for her and teaching her to understand the Creator better.

Then, the Mighty Oak became silent and the birds flew from his branches as he fell to the ground, forever falling asleep.

The Cherry Tree wept quietly, going deeply inward.

Though sadness filled her heart, she still felt the roots of the Mighty Oak intertwined with hers and knew he would forever be a part of her.

There, in that same lonely field of beautiful flowers, the Cherry Tree stood alone for what felt like forever.

She was taller.

She was stronger.

She was quieter.

She whispered when the wind blew through her branches and her words became a soft song of remembrance.

The birds would sit upon her branches and sing along.

She silently cried out in lonliness to the Creator, and she waited patiently for an answer.

One quiet and sunny day, she saw the local farmer come up the side of the hill.

A song of thankfulness started to rise within her, even though she was uncertain of what the future might hold.

She knew that, whatever the farmer planted, their roots would grow together and she would pass on the message of love embedded within her by the Mighty Oak.

Being a hardware heiress wasn’t exactly what Shira dreamed of as a child. As she lay in bed listening to her morning alarm, she felt even more trapped than she did by that sweaty, heavy, alcohol-drenched mass she only half remembered. She shivered and shook off distant yet not dissipated memories.

As she sat up, she eyed the orange apron of her work uniform with such fierce hate that she was surprised it didn’t spontaneously combust. If only she had the power to do such a feat all those years ago. She smirked as she imagined that strange man bursting into flames and screaming. She buried her face in her hands feeling frustrated and confused. Why did she even stick around?

Over the course of her young life, she envisioned the many ways she left her situation. She saw herself living someone else’s life full of laughter and joy. Often inspired by true stories of strangers escaping, she imagined herself somewhere so far away she’d never be found and become a stranger herself.

Shira drifted into a daydream of having Tommy Macpherson’s resolve. He escaped from a Nazi prisoner of war camp after two years of torture and then escaped again after the Gestapo recaptured him. Although she knew she needed Juliane Koepcke’s courage to even begin her journey to a new life where she could feel some level of safety and comfort.

Courage.

That seemed to be the missing ingredient. She felt strong and capable while envisioning others escaping and surviving, but when she looked around at her world, she felt small and unable. She scoffed as she looked around her ostentatious penthouse apartment which was overflowing with every material thing a woman could want. When Shira heard her chef in the kitchen making her breakfast, she cringed.

It’s time.

She couldn’t take it any longer.

Her thoughts drifted with sad fondness to her three sisters and all the strange paths they took to try to shake the weight of that midnight visit during their childhood. Ali took that sexual deviance and made it hers by becoming a Playboy bunny. On the outside she had it all but Shira knew that Ali cried herself to sleep every night.

Cari became an elementary school teacher and tried to help as many young children as possible. While this seems to be a noble profession, she was really only trying to save herself, over and over again.

Rily never made it out of high school. She escaped by overdosing when she learned she was pregnant. Shira knew that Rily was probably the happiest of them all.

Not anymore.

Shira threw her orange apron into the stainless steel trashcan. Then she lit that most heinous symbol of her father and his strange visitor on fire.  She grabbed her go-bag which had clothes and cash in it.   As she walked out the door of her tortured and privileged life, she began to laugh at the thought of how strangers both destroyed and saved her life.

Once upon a moonbeam's hazing, as the light in pale streams glazing, bursting through the window's raising as I Facebooked friends of yore- Covered over, rather weepy- I, myself, had gotten sleepy, and the creepy moment hit me with a knocking at my door. "Just a wanderer," I mumbled, "come late, knocking at my door-

Simply this, and nothing more."

Now, exactly, I remember- there were chills of cold December, and the fireplace shared its members as if ghosts strewn on the floor. Desperately in my madness, ever emptied of my gladness from my phone removing sadness- sadness for my dead Lenore- Oh, the pristine, prudent package that the angels called Lenore-

Unnamed here forevermore.

And the dueling, dangling drapes departed as a flitting cape, and I became entangled with such fancies never felt before; so that I began denying; thought my mind, it must be lying, and replying, "Just some wanderer there knocking at my door- Some wanderer come late and simply knocking at my door;

Only this, and nothing more."

When I placed aside my cellphone, suddenly a spooky ringtone rang and sang a tune as I decided I should go explore ... "Madam? Sir? I have grown sleepy, and the moment, rather creepy, has me waning, almost weepy by your knocking at my door. Did I dream you?" I said softly as I opened up the door;

Emptiness, and nothing more.

Forced into the empty viewing, how I stood and tried renewing, in the brewing of my psyche thinking things none thought before; but the hollow void that chose me, swallowed all in shallow poesy, and the wind made my cheeks rosy as I spoke the word, "Lenore?" This I uttered, and it muttered back upon me in "Lenore!"

Simply this, and nothing more.

Running back into the hallway, I grew faint from such a word play, then I heard the knocking rocking louder than it had before. "I will Google late night sounds upon my phone about these grounds," then turned around deciding once again that I should go explore- "Catch my breath and forfeit death in this enigma to explore;

Could be the wind, and nothing more."

To the window I strode, branded, as I looked beyond, remanded, and in landed such a Raven as those Odin did adore. In the opening I gave him flew the fowl fiend in the moon's dim light and made his way upon the board atop my bedroom door- Stretching neck and feathers rudely there atop my bedroom door-  

Stretched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this dark bird gave me reason to believe it born of treason and no season of the holiday could alter or ignore. "Let me get my phone- I'll rave in how this night I've felt a cave-in as you've come to see me, Raven, from some far off distant shore! Speak into my phone and offer where you hail from- yes, what shore!"

Said the Raven, "Nevermore."

I recorded as he flitted, waxing wings so neatly fitted, I acquitted him of any common sense I thought he bore; for with what my eyes were seeing, surely not a human being ever since me, here agreeing this vile thing atop my door- This vile thing, a demon spawning hatred high atop my door

With a name like "Nevermore."

But the Raven sat there only seeming listless, brooding, lonely and again he only spoke one word and mentioned nothing more. I rekindled as time dwindled and my phone, I held and spindled out disgust at what the Raven said to me, and had before. May he leave me at the sunrise as most birds have done before.

And the bird said, "Nevermore."

Not recording, now in hoarding all the dark fiend said while lording, I surmised, "This is the only thing within its spoken store, taught from some dumbfounded owner, sending out this bird, a loner, and the moaner must have gaped and raped the one word that it bore- Nestled deeply in its vocal chord where eerily it bore

Its 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven, still in treason, had me frazzled in my reason, so I moved a futon stationed there beyond my bedroom door; then upon my pillow sinking, I then popped a top and drinking beer, resounded that this bird that only Odin did adore- What this mystic, cryptic bird that only Odin did adore

Meant in cawing "Nevermore."

I reclined and went to guessing what the syllables expressing in confessing just one word as beady eyes burned through my core; with my iPhone set for finding information thus reminding that the knowledge sought was binding as I laid back to explore; with that binding, blinding knowledge sought, I laid back to explore- 

Shall she sink, ah, nevermore!

Then the phone fell from my hand, and feeling sick, I tried to stand but thought I saw the Seraphim come trodding o'er my hardwood floor. "Fool," I laughed, "Your God sent you; by this angel, He has lent you, and in my disgust, I meant to take back thoughts of dead Lenore! Caw and caw, but I will take back all these thoughts of dead Lenore!"

Said the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Mystic!" said I, "thing of magic, mystic, or a thing born tragic!- whether teasing me, or teased upon as you have flown ashore- Desolation, as I wanted, all this horror in me haunted, and the isolation daunting as I beg you to implore- is there balm in lavender- oh, tell me, tell me, I implore!"

Said the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Mystic!" said I, "thing of magic, mystic, or a thing born tragic!- by the Universe created by the God that I abhor- Please reveal the hidden measure of the secret, longing treasure, give me pleasure one last time- the maiden angels called Lenore! Will I hold and be held by the maiden angels called Lenore?"

Said the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Say that name as we are finished, and my use for you diminished as I look upon my phone a way to drive you back ashore. Leave no feather to remember that your eyes like blazing embers this December came, now go and leave from off my bedroom door! Get your beak from out my heart and leave from off my bedroom door!"

Said the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, as I'm grieving, never leaving, never leaving, still is perching on the board atop my lonesome bedroom door; and his eyes have all the scheming of a demon in the beaming light that casts his shadow dreaming all across my wooden floor; and my soul from in his shadow floating off my wooden floor 

Shall find freedom- nevermore! 

WE ARE ALL BROKEN

choke'n on what's fractured

captured just to be battered

tattered rough and scattered

shattered by faith torn asunder

gone under absent whimsical wonder

thunder-struck by a wayward blunder

plunder a plea to simply be...

WE ARE ALL BROKEN

spoken to like we're not smart

dart-tipped insult from-the-start

heart hammered and torn apart

tart minded to undeniably damaged

bandaged soul barbarically managed

famished hope utterly banished

vanished into the urge to flee..

WE ARE ALL BROKEN

smoken inside and burnt to the bone

shown no courtesy on the way home

thrown down for knowledge unknown

blown back by how the odds are stacked

cracked considerations no longer tracked

packed down deep with a heavy impact

contact as one of many fish in the sea...

|| another_proser ||

They've already said the words twelve times. "One last time," my friend giggled, but something was already bothering me. "Say it with me," she said as she faced the mirror. "Bloody Mary."

The mirror reflected nothing but our images, and I was about to sigh in relief. Then something caught my eye.

A shadow.

I turned to the corner of the bathroom, and there stood a woman, her head held down, hair covering her face, blood strewn across her tattered dress.

I felt a hand tug my arm, and saw it was my friend, paralyzed with fear, her eyes on the same corner.

Shaking, I turned my gaze back to the ghost, but only saw as it ran towards us.

It started with an itch.

It was mid-term exams week so I didn't really have much time to worry about it. I scratched at the underside of my foot for a couple of days before I assumed it was athlete's foot and threw some medicated powder on it. I remembered I had forgotten to wear flip-flops in the shower just a few nights before and you know how college dorms can be, especially the bathrooms. They're not exactly what I would call a sterile environment. 

It was annoying, sure, especially since I wanted to focus on studying, but shit happens. I put on some socks and told myself I could handle it. It was just a little itch after all. There are worse things, like disease and malnutrition.

But then I couldn't focus. I couldn't think about anything except itching my foot and relieving the burning ache that crawled along the skin of my toes. Everyone told me not to scratch it, and I resisted, I did, but it was impossible. I had to scratch it sooner or later. I was going crazy. 

So I took off my shoes one night and I scratched it. And then I couldn't stop scratching for hours, for days even. Time passed by so quickly and the itch felt like it worsened by the second. I lost interest in everything except scratching. 

It sounds ridiculous, I know. My boyfriend thought so too. After a couple of weeks of me ignoring him so that I could scratch in peace, he broke up with me. I wanted to cry, honestly, because I think I loved him, but I couldn't even pick up the phone to beg him to take me back at this point. Itching had become a two hand job and it was a 24/7 affair.

The loyalty of my friends lasted a little longer. I think it was about a month and a half before they stopped knocking on my door. My roommate made up a complaint about a nasty smell in our room, like something was rotting, and blamed it on me so she could move out. I didn't like being alone, but I was glad I had so much time to myself to itch. It was hard to think about anyone or anything but the itch. 

By now it had spread. It was probably my fault since I never washed my hands after I scratched my foot and then touched other parts of my body. I took biology and I know that bacterial and fungal infections can spread easily through touch. I guess I wasn't even really thinking about it since I had to concentrate on the itch.

I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't go to class, couldn't shower. My mom was worried because I never returned her calls, but I couldn't think long enough to answer the phone and talk to her. I made a habit of laying on the bed with the blinds closed and the lights turned off so no one would know I was home and I scratched.

I don't know how long it was before the campus police came looking for me. It must've been a while because they sounded serious when they knocked on my door and called my name. 

The itch was worsening. My skin felt like it was melting. I needed to get away, I needed to get out of here, to somewhere I could be alone, where I could scratch and no one would bother me. 

Luckily I lived on the first floor of my building so I opened the window, popped out the screen, and jumped through into the adjacent courtyard. It had been so dark in my room that, for me, daylight no longer existed. The sun that day, for some reason, was scorching and suddenly I felt so sluggish that I struggled to open my eyes.

In the back of my mind, someone was screaming hysterically. 

"Oh my God!! Oh my God! OH MY GOD!"

It was a girl I knew, watching me with a horrified look on her face. I ignored her despite the strange way I felt when I caught a glimpse of her, like there was a small gnawing ache between my ribs, right below my heart. I sought the dark quiet shadows of the woods nearby, moving slowly.

A different voice called my name from behind. Footsteps drew closer. A part of me recognized my ex-boyfriend instantly, but my head was so fuzzy. I just needed to be alone, so that I could itch. All I wanted was to itch. 

"Katie! Katie, stop! Please!"

I don't know why I stopped. I still can't explain it, the itch, or why it stopped when I looked at him. But when the itch disappeared, I felt cold, like my skin was full of holes and the spring breeze was blowing through it. My ex stepped in front of me, bent forward to meet my eyes. My vision was blurring and I could barely see his face. 

"Katie? Oh God, your skin... You look like hell..."

He pulled me to him and he smelled just like I remembered and his arms around me were so warm. 

"Katie, you smell like you haven't showered in weeks..."

He moved to pull away from me and I wrapped my arms around his waist. I thought maybe if he became a part of me, I could absorb his warmth from the inside. We could be together again, in a way that nothing would ever separate us. We could become one. 

I bit him. First in the shoulder and then the neck. When he died, the blood began to taste sour and I dropped his body on the grass.

The girl had started screaming again, but she didn't run. She was an easy catch. Not that she tasted very good, but I was hungry anyway. 

I don't remember anything after that. I know I made it to the woods and I know a lot of time has passed since then because I've walked for so long that I don't know where I am anymore and it's dark. 

I feel tired so I find somewhere to sit and I rest my legs. I want to sleep, I want to think, figure out what I'm going to do now, but I can't. My skin itches again. 

Somewhere behind me, branches rustle and crack.

"Hey! Are you okay? Is this your blood on the ground?"

Suddenly, the itch goes away. 

All we did was pick flowers. Them girls was my friends. I never hurt nobody. Those police yell at me. They slap me. Tol’ me I can go home. I just say I did it. Momma made my favorite dinner. I just wan’ go home.

But they lied. Put me in a cold room. I almos’ fit through them bars. I dream I running to momma. She hug me and take me home. Then I wake up and cry. It’s sad here. Everybody's goin' to die. 

I miss my friends. Ain't nobody else 14 in here. I just wan’ pick flowers.

“It’s hot in here,” I whined.

“Yeah, no shit,” Eric answered. My brother got it worse than me, but he was also tougher than me, so it evened out.

I rubbed my arm and noticed how dirty I was. It had been a week since I last bathed. I itched everywhere.

“You think he’s up yet?” I asked.

Eric nodded, his blue-grey eyes cast far away. The light shining through the slats in the barn door made him look older than sixteen.

I paced in circles, staring at the dirt floor. The block in the corner was stained rust. Flies buzzed his recent kills and the rotting smell grew as I approached.

I heard the screen door slam shut and my head snapped around. I hunched down to squint thru a gap. He was coming. I reacted quickly, grabbing the chicken head closest to me. Even now, I have no idea why. It was covered in maggots and flies lifted off when I ripped it from the floor, leaving feathers behind.

Slushy footsteps sounded outside. Suddenly Eric was on top of me, pulling my collar, shoving me behind him. Just as the bar slid open, he shoved my hand deep into his painter’s pocket. Squeezing hard, I let go, the head falling to the bottom with a wet thud.

Da stood in the barn door wearing his old gray bathrobe. Too short, it showed the scarred knees and wobbly legs of an old man. Only we knew better.

“Well, come on then,” he said quietly. He sounded reasonable, sober even.

Eric strode out, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. I glanced up at Da and then ran, scampering on Eric’s heels.

Inside the light was dim and Da shuffled around the kitchen, limping in his usual pattern. When he was safely in front of the TV again, Eric and I drifted off to separate corners. 

But when I came out of the shower, Eric was sitting at the top of the stairs.

“What?” I whispered down to him.

He didn’t respond, so I gingerly stepped around to him, cautious of slipping in wet feet. 

“What?” I repeated, softer.

He silently held up his palm. It had a fresh cigarette welt in its center. Red and going on pussy already. Mild for Da, but still, I should make myself scarce. Eric shooed me upstairs and then cradled the hand in his lap. I tried to read his face, but he was a blank. I ran back up, latching our bedroom door in slow motion, trying not to breathe.

Eric was bristling, shaky, as we made dinner. He set Da’s plate in the usual spot, then laid the baked potato in the center instead of on the side. When I opened my mouth to ask why, Eric gave me a cold, tight smile.

On top of the potato, he carefully placed the chicken head, beak out. With one filmy eye staring, I thought it wore Eric’s expression. I panicked.

“Eric, he’ll be back any minute!” His beer runs never took more than twenty minutes and we were going on fifteen.

Like he had before, Eric pulled my collar. But this time he pushed me in front of him, toward the back door. Leaning into my face he said, “I’m gonna do it, Davey. Hide in Mrs. Peterson’s greenhouse. Don’t come back until you hear the sirens.”

“No! Eric! Don’t!” I begged. I don’t know whether I was worried about him or Da or both of them.

“I love you Davey. Now go!” He shoved me harder and I stumbled backwards slamming into the screen door. I heard the Chevy pull up and I took one last look at Eric. His hands, empty, were clasped behind his back. Even so, he looked ready. I ran out into the night.

I didn’t make it to Mrs. Peterson’s. I heard the car door slam, then a thunderous “Whad you do boy?” More shouting and a loud explosion. I saw in my minds eye what was happening. Them tussling and crashing thru the table. When Eric started screaming, I turned back and ran for the house. I knew that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t let it happen again.

I banged back inside. Da was in the center of the crushed table on his knees, choking Eric. “Da!!! Stop it!” I jumped on his shoulders, trying to pull him off. “You’re gonna kill him! Stop!” Eric’s eyes were bulging, foamy spit spilling down his chin.  His feet were kicking up silverware and chunks of plate.

Neither of them looked at me. I felt myself dissolve in that moment. The sound zipped away from me all at once. I was suddenly alone and not quite real, like a ghost bearing witness to a decades old murder. Everything that was happening was beneath me. Just a stain under the floorboards. For a moment, I felt the concrete chill of my prison cell. And then with just a subtle twang in my eardrums, the world came rushing back in.

I could hear Eric gagging, could hear Da’s heavy panting from the sweaty exertion of murdering his eldest. Eric’s face was purple now except for white circles rising under his eyes and around his mouth and nose. I stooped down for the second time that day, my hands reacting automatically. One long screw, still clinging to splinters, protruded ninety degrees from the end of the table leg I now held.

I raised it up as high as I could and smashed it down on Da’s neck over and over, hitting close to his hairline each time. As he fell, he crashed down on top of Eric, mini volcanos of blood spurting from his back. He started to buck as if an electric current ran through him.

Nothing at first. And then Eric started to ooze out from the right side of the broken table. One ear appeared, and then a smashed nose. He managed to push a little and I pulled with everything I had left. Half hanging in my arms, we got him up in one of the chairs. 

We looked down at Da, who had ceased twitching. His pool of blood was so big he couldn’t have any left in him.

“Davey,” Eric started, then coughed up more blood.  His cough sounded squeaky. Something was broken inside of him I thought, picturing shards of glass. This was confirmed when Eric grabbed his lower ribs and groaned. He made a diarrhea face, before continuing. 

 “Sirens. They’re gonna come Davey, and…” Coughing blood out between his fingers, he stopped. He spat onto Da’s leg, then pulled in a big hackey breath and said “You gotta tell them about the barn, about Mom. You gotta…” Then Eric’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward into my lap. 

 All at once I was alone. That ghost feeling came back then and it hasn’t left me since.

The rest…well. Sherriff Mitchell was a friend of Da’s. He knew what went on at our place, both before and after. He knew or could easily guess where Mom was buried. He could’ve razed the barn and have her exhumed. Could have seen my way of things. But he didn’t. He made it seem like me and Eric had jumped Da.  I was convicted as an adult.

Sometimes I blame Eric for not running. But he wanted to take down the beast. For Mom. Maybe a little bit for me. He just couldn’t do it alone. So we managed it together like we had done everything before. 

I’m still watching it happen you know.  In that kitchen, in that barn, on those stairs. I’ve never left that place really. Just like I’m never leaving this one.

“You have to help me.”

The cop sitting across from me, middle-aged and burdened with a jaded sense of justice, stubs out his cigarette.

"I don't remember anything. You have to believe me.”

His partner, old and tired of this job, of humanity, sighs heavily.

“Why won’t you listen? I can’t tell you anything. I’m telling you the truth.”

The cop, the middle-aged one, hits the table suddenly and the sound echoes, bounces off the peeling walls surrounding us.

“We have your DNA. How could it not have been you? It was your DNA on the weapon. You’re caught. You tell the same old story, the same old ‘I don’t remember,’ the same lies.”

I start to cry. I can’t help it. He always scolded me for that, my crying, my weakness. He was always the stronger one.

His partner puffs out his cheeks. He comes closer to take a seat at the table and begins to speak softly to me. I feel myself relax at the soft buzz of his voice. He sounds so much like him.

“We’re just trying to help you. You can plead out, get an easier sentence. If you won’t tell us the truth, then we can’t help you.”

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt, clear my throat. “I know that. I’m telling you the truth.” 

I take a deep breath, hold the cigarette smell in my mouth. I love that smell. He always smelled like that, I could taste it on his lips when we kissed.

My head is killing me, but I don’t want to sleep. It’s hard when I’m tired. I haven’t slept much in several days, not since this all began. I’ve been afraid to fall asleep. “I don’t…” Another breath. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He says nothing, just closes his eyes and locks his fingers together in front of his mouth, elbows on the table, but not like he’s concentrating. He looks like he’s praying. The cop, the meaner one, impatiently lights another cigarette, inhales in a hurry, exhales slowly. It’s the same brand that he used to smoke, I notice. I feel dizzy.

“I’ll tell the jury what I know, I’ll tell them the truth, and you can rot in hell,” he says. His voice is calm, like the eye of a hurricane. It reminds me of something, something dark, something creeping at the back of my skull. My throat closes and I can’t breathe.

When I don’t say anything, when the silence settles in the air like his cigarette smoke, he kicks the chair back in anger and leaves the interrogation room. The door rattles behind him.

His partner remains, his eyes still closed. He startles me when he speaks. His mouth moves so subtly it’s like he’s not even talking.

“You’re going to go on death row.”

The base of my skull throbs. “No,” I say.

“You’re going to go on death row,” he repeats. “You’re going to die.”

“No I’m not!” I get up, walk in a circle. My eyes burn. The blood gushing to my head, under my skin, feels like it’s on fire. I realize that a part of me believes him, wants to believe him, because a part of me feels like something is wrong. Why can’t I remember anything from that day, from that night? “I’m not guilty. How can I be if I don’t remember anything? They’ll let me go.”

He sighs again, heavier than the last time, like the air is sinking, weighing him down. He gets up, picks up the folder on the table with all the photographs, and moves toward the door. After a pause, a second thought, he turns back.

“Here,” he says. He places the folder on the table, gently, like it’s made of glass, and leaves.

I don’t want to look at them, but I do, I want to see, I want to remember. I don’t remember anything about that night. But I know I didn’t do anything wrong. They have the wrong woman. I didn’t kill anybody.

I sit down, open the folder and flip through the photos, one by one. Most of them are crime scene photos, pictures of overturned furniture and blood splatters. There are a lot of blood splatters.

Then come the pictures of the body, oh god the body, and there’s so much blood, oh my god there’s so much blood, and it looks so wrong, but the face is so peaceful oh god she looks so peaceful and I feel myself slipping, my eyes blurring, and my skull reverberates harder and harder, like it’s going to crack.

The last thing I see is his body, still wet, still glistening with blood.

I come back into the room a couple of hours later. She is asleep, her head on the table, resting on her arms. The folder of crime scene photographs sits close to her, next to her fingers, but untouched. I close the door and she stirs at the sound.

She blinks bleary eyes, smiles at me.

“James,” she says. “Thank God you’re here.”

“I’m sorry?” I say.

She blinks again, then a second, and a third time. Suddenly her faces flushes and she bites her lip. “I-I’m sorry, officer. You…” She smiles at the space over my shoulder, her eyes shining. “You smell like my husband.” She laughs softly. “I always wanted him to stop because it was so bad for his health, but I actually loved the smell.”

She’s crazy. But not crazy enough, the psychiatrist said. Not crazy enough to be innocent. I come towards her and take a seat at the table, stub out my cigarette. “Mrs. Green, I need you to understand: if you don’t tell the truth right here and right now, then you will most likely face a death sentence.”

Her shoulders sink. She shakes her head and buries her face in her arms, like a child. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Mrs. Green--”

“I don’t want to talk anymore!” She cries quietly, softly. “I want to see my family,” she mumbles.

I feel the anger pulse in the veins in my hands. My neck grows warm. I rub my temples, try to keep it under control. “Mrs. Green, you know that you can’t see them.”

“I want to see them.” The pitch in her voice is shrill, maddening. 

I look down at my hands, watch them clench and relax. I have a daughter. I have a daughter the same age.

The muscles in my jaw tighten. I push the chair back, stand up, lean in closely to her face. She inhales, exhales. Her eyes shine in an odd way and she squeezes them shut. 

“You will never see them again.”

Three knocks on the door. My cue to leave her, leave her to her guilt and her death sentence. I look at her, watch her avoid my gaze, study her studying the one-way glass. I pick up the folder of photographs and leave. I don’t look back, don’t dare to, because I know that I will want to kill her, and it’s not yet her time to die.

I sit on the bed and try to think of something to say to her, but nothing comes. I feel my face redden, feel my eyes grow hot and pulse with tears. I swallow, grip the pen in my hand tighter, tighter, tighter still, until my fingers throb.

I read what few words I’ve written over and over, grasping and reaching at syllables, but nothing sounds right.

Dear Bree,

Mommy loves you a lot. Mommy will always love you, with all her heart, but you’re not going to see Mommy for a while. Mommy has to—

The letter stops. My throat tightens, my sight blurs. How much can I tell her? Can I tell her that Mommy has to die?

“Why can't I remember?” I say. My voice echoes back to me off the metal bars and I can hear the hopelessness, the desperation. The tears come silently, easily, and I let them.

“I’m sorry, Bree. I’m so sorry.”

I release the pen and paper to lay back on the cot. I try to remember my daughter’s face, her smile, her laugh, but the dull gray fluorescent light makes my skull swim.

I can smell cigarettes. It might be my imagination, but I swear it, I can smell them, his brand. “James,” I whisper.

I close my eyes. I hear his voice. I feel his warmth, his hands. His calloused, rough hands, squeezing, constricting, my throat closing, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, oh god James why, I thought you loved me I thought we were perfect, our daughter is in the other room, please stop, I don’t want her to see this I don’t want her to see this.

He slams my head against the wall. I bleed red, then white, then black.

I fall asleep.

“A hamburger, nothing on it.” The waitress smiles, looks to my partner.

“The steak please.”

“I’ll have that right out,” she says. Her heels click away.

I take a sip of my coffee, avoiding our usual small talk. My partner takes note, shoots me a knowing look.

“Something bothers you about it.”

I sigh, wrap my hands around the heat of the coffee mug. “Something felt wrong about her. I’ve tried, but I can’t pinpoint it.”

He raises his bushy graying eyebrows. “I don’t think you should mull over it so much. The evidence was there.”

I slip a cigarette from the carton in my jacket pocket, secure it between my lips. I flip the lighter open, hear her voice. “James…”

I think better of it, take the cigarette out of my mouth. “I thought she was lying. I was so sure she was lying. I mean, who wouldn’t remember something like that? But the way she behaved… maybe she really couldn’t remember.”

My partner shakes his head firmly, his bald spot reflecting the bright diner lighting. “I doubt it. Everything made sense. Her husband abused her repeatedly, but she loved him so much she wouldn’t let him go. We’ve seen cases like that a dime a dozen.

“What makes her unique,” he says, his mouth a grim, taut line, “is that when she found about the mistress, and when he probably said he wanted a divorce, she murdered him.”

“And their daughter,” I whisper. I think of Emily, my daughter. I think of the way the little girl was tucked into bed, like she was sleeping. You wouldn’t even know if you didn’t see the marks on her throat or the wound on her head.

“Anyway, it’s too late for second thoughts. Her execution was this morning.”

“It just bothered me,” I say, “the way she never budged from her story. Like she really believed herself.”

He shrugs. “Maybe she did. Didn’t the psychiatrist say she probably blocked out the memory because it was traumatic or somethin’?” He frowns. “Doesn’t excuse her from murder.”

“I know. I just—“ I take a breath, close my eyes. “I just can’t believe she could hurt her own daughter.”

It was such a normal day. The sun shined normally, the birds sang normally, people walked and talked normally, I went to the grocery store like I normally do after work on Tuesdays… James said he would pick up Bree, said we could go to the pier or the park, spend the evening together, as a family… I knew that he was sorry for what he did, sorry for hurting me. I knew that he loved me and I knew I could forgive him, knew that he wouldn’t do it again, it would be different this time, because we loved each other.

“James?” I called into the house, grocery bags in hand. It was unusually quiet, but I was humming and the keys in my hand were jingling so I didn’t notice, I didn’t notice anything. “Bree?”

I heard it then, the crying. Broken, shattered moans. I followed it to the hallway between our bedroom and Bree’s.

“Oh my God.”

James was sitting on the floor, his head between his knees. He looked up at me when he heard my footsteps, his face wet, glistening. I had never seen him cry before, but I wasn’t surprised, I wasn’t looking at him, not even as he stood up and reached for me, said my name. I was looking at Bree, staring at her body, at the blood, oh god so much blood, pooling around her head.

“Bree?”

She wasn’t moving, oh god she’s not moving, what did you do, what did you do.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying. “I’m so sorry. I lost my temper and she was crying and I just needed to think but she wouldn’t be quiet…“

“You hurt her,” I say. I feel so heavy. Something claws at my eyes, something red, something hot. “You hurt our daughter.”

“I’m sorry. I love you. I love you both. I’m so sorry.”

“How could you?” I say. “We’re a family. How could you hurt her?” I whip around, make my way to the phone, but I have to hold onto the wall, I feel so weak, so heavy.

He reaches out, tries to wrap his arms around me. “Look, we can fix this. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I love you. You don’t need to worry. We can get through this.”

I can’t see anything. I can’t see anything but Bree, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, oh god so much blood, my baby, how could you hurt her, my baby, this is my fault, I let him do this, I never stopped him and now Bree oh god Bree—

I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to. All I could see was Bree, all I could see was her face, her blood, and when he grabbed me, pulled me back into him, my hand moved on its own, sank the garage key into his neck.

He gurgled, he choked on his blood, and I watched, I watched him die. I killed him, I killed the man I love, James I loved you oh god what did I do.

She was the one who called the police, his mistress. He was supposed to meet her the next day. I was supposed to be at work. She came to the house looking for him. She must’ve had a key, he must’ve given her a copy. She let herself in and she found James. I heard her screaming, but all I could hear was Bree, all I could see was my daughter, my baby girl. I picked her up, she was so limp, my baby, so full of life, was so limp, and I put her to bed, tucked her in like I always do, sang her a song.

This is all my fault. I let him hurt me, let him abuse me, and he hurt Bree because I didn’t stop him, because I didn’t do something.

I deserve to die.

I wake up. It’s so hard to breathe and I sit on the bed for a few minutes, just breathing, holding the air in my lungs until it burns. What a horrible dream, I think.

It’s dark, but I know that it’s time. A uniformed prison guard stands at the door to my cell, waiting. He handcuffs me, leads me down the long hallway.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but will you do me a favor?”

He eyes me with suspicion.

I swallow, blink. Something dark and cold creeps at the back of my skull. “Please, will you mail this letter to my daughter? I don’t want her to worry.”

I slip the letter from the pocket of my orange uniform and, to my relief, he accepts it. “Thank you so much,” I say. “I just don’t want her to worry about me."

He doesn't look at me, but he nods. "Don't worry," he says. "She's fine."

My head clears, lightens, fills with bright and soft air. I smile. "Thank goodness."