Part I

I don’t know. I guess it just felt like it would be safe here.

You never really think something you’ve dreamt up could happen to you

Right where you are

Right now

You never really think something you worry about

Something you’ve had nightmares about

Yeah, you never really think that’s going to happen to you

Until it does

Sometimes you still can’t believe it

Like the scene you’re watching is from a TV show where the writers aren’t very sensitive to the audience.

They add a lot of gore

And - I guess - sexual horror

You never really think it’s going to happen to you,

Until it already has or it’s happening right then and there.

It’s a way to protect yourself.

When you’re afraid, you tell yourself it isn’t the time

Now isn’t the time you’ll die.

You don’t pass out, not here.

You haven’t before, right? You’ll be OK.

And yet, you wake up with the sound of an ice-cream truck playing

And you’re rooted in consciousness

Grounded by the sound of screams of pain

Crisis changes things.

At first you feel like you can handle it

You can go for days without sleep

You stand for hours without relieving yourself

Relief sounds like medicine for the weak, so you don’t seek treatment

Instead, you bury yourself under the weight of bodies a social virus is terrorizing

And you wonder when your body will be on the cart next.

Every year the neighborhood has a garage sale.

The HOA picks a date, pretends to vote, and reminds people to bake some kind of goodies for

The would be clientele

They forget to say the clientele are mostly nonexistent as there’s no one who lives outside of our

Community who would visit here

Unless they’d been before. Unless they anted something.

People don’t come here unless they’re seeking something their God won’t give them.

And then?

I think they assume they’ll find it within our city limits.

There’s recompense here for those who search

But what they find isn’t exactly the key to salvation

I’m not really sure what door it opens.

I know they find answers, here. I just don’t really know to what questions.

Because surely, this isn’t something your average Joe chooses on their own.

I’ve asked questions before

I never find any answers

But maybe I’m not asking questions that answers exist for

Or maybe no one wants to hear them out loud.

The grass smells sweeter than the grilled peaches on Uncle Dawson’s patio.

It’s making me sick, and before I realize it, I’m wrenching the contents of my stomach into the sweet fresh-cut grass someone had taken a lawn mower to only yesterday afternoon when the heat broke.

The ice cream truck’s music is like cool icing on the cake, except it makes the bile in my throat hot and suddenly I’m wrenching again before I can find enough visible stability to get away from the vomit in the grass and stumble past the fire pit I’d fallen near.

It was late when I’d fallen asleep in one of the wicker chairs arranged carefully by the fire pit near the shed in the backyard. The farmhouse wasn’t that far away, but far enough the upstairs windows were left open without a lingering fear the smell of the fire and smoke would reach the thin screens. You’d think the AC would be turned on to full blast during the summer, especially here, yet it was carefully turned off in the evenings to preserve energy, money, or something.

The humidity, after all, is a southern secret to soft and beautiful skin throughout one’s life.

White curtains billowed visibly behind the screens on the second floor, masking only the delicate details of those who passed by them from the inside. Guests and family alike had spent time in the carefully placed

—-

Two six packs later, an empty box of cigarettes and a pungent, sweet after-essence of marijuana lingered over the fire even though it’s 2 in the afternoon the following day. It smells, and the sweetness on the air isn’t reminiscent of anything I’ve ever smelled before. Except for the time the curling iron was so hot I didn’t even feel my skin sizzling until it was burnt off, layer by layer and too far too fast.

I’m not brave enough to look through the smoke to see who is still here. Instead, I’m weak and fumbling for the shade and cloud cover provided by the treeline only so far away.

Somehow it’s quiet - except for the crackle of a distant fire, the acrid smell of vomit, smoke, and sweet yet burnt flesh permeating the gray afternoon. And I sit on the ground, nestled in the fallen leaves beneath a towering pine tree that’s acted as a guardian, witness, and security officer for far too many scenarios.

I sit there in the sweltering afternoon, beads of sweat dripping down my back like droplets of blood down my legs.

I don’t know if the police will come. Sometimes they don’t make it into the city fast enough. I know we’re far away, but it would be nice to believe there’s someone coming.

The screams are still louder than sirens I can hear in the distance, gently crying like infantile wails of desperation.

I don’t know if they’ll make it.