Interrogation

Well, detective. I guess we'll start at the beginning.

I spent most of my time in the background of her favorite haunts. She’d pretended not to see me. But I caught the glances. She looked for me in every room she entered but didn’t leave even when she'd taken note of my presence. There were times I thought about giving up and leave her to her ways but truthfully-- I was drawn to her, too. I leaned into the trappings of predatory youth, into the allure of fishnet stockings stretched over Rubenesque thighs and chapping lips smeared with black and stained with wine. She caved, cat in heat, arching her back to the demands of a carefully crafted personality. She’d turned delusion into an art form.

I had a slew of plans. A thousand ways to end the beastess of burden. Then one night, I caught her walking alone. So I struck up conversation. She was hesitant. But greeted me with warmly. With trust. She complimented my appearance- Those boots with that dress-soft, but unapologetic. I wish my curls were like yours. I returned the favor- Did you cut that shirt yourself? I used to love that band. How long have you had the dreadlocks? We talked for an hour. In that time, I came to know her more than she knew herself.

As we strolled through the burgeoning moonlight, I lured her into the depths of a nearby forest, mulling over the moments that would be her last. And wouldn’t you know-- all it took was a few cold words spoken into the darkness of a broken, vulnerable moment. I watched with fascination as she spiraled into the rabbit hole, fleeing from invisible monsters hidden in shuttered moonlight. She ran wild. No direction. No purpose. Finally, a persistent root caught her old sneakers and brought her neck onto a slab of granite jutting from the mountainside.

I dragged her body through the trees until I met the edge of the Reedy River. For a moment, I considered tossing her body into the water. It was part of at least half of the plans I made. But it felt too cold. I didn’t mourn her. But I no longer hated her. Kinda missed her, in a way. Anyway, I grabbed a sturdy branch and hacked away at the grass until I’d dug deeply enough to cover her. Ripped my dress on the rocks. In hindsight, lace wasn’t the best attire for the occasion. But It was still a funeral, after all.

On my way back, I found her bag on the ground. There was an old notebook with a bunch of pages torn out. The ones that were left were beaten all to hell. I could indentation of the some stuff she’d written, this stream of almost-there epiphanies, a messy search for meaning in a void. Killed me to read. I returned to her gravesite and buried the notebook there, too. Threw the rest into the river.

Visited her now and again. I think in a different life, we could have been much closer. Last I saw, a bunch of flowers were growing there. Someone was bound to notice. To make connections.

She’s buried beneath the willow tree. And the last time I saw it, it seemed different, too.

Yeah.

In a different life, we would have been much closer.