He put the blacklight and spray bottle away on their shelf up above the leather case.
Then he killed the bulb and trudged back up the steps, closing the door behind him.
The news was on television now.
He flipped to another channel.
A movie was on; a movie he’d never seen all the way through, but had been meaning to watch.
Looked like he’d only missed a few minutes.
Ronald decided to watch it.

Bump-bump-bump!
Ronald jerked awake.
Someone was at the door.
Ronald got up out of his lounge chair and walked out of his living room.
He left the static-blaring television on, so he could see in the darkness.
Bump-bump-bump!
“I’m comin’! It’s late!”
He peered through the peephole to see how many police officers there were.
None.
No neighbours either.
Ronald figured they might be off to the sides of the door.
He quickly pulled his jackknife out of his back pocket, switched it open, and kept it clenched it in his hand behind his back.
With his free hand, he opened the door.
“Hello?! Who the hell’s banging on my damn door in the middle of the night?”
There was no one outside the door.
Ronald tentatively stepped out and peeked around the corners of his house, right and left.
He didn’t see anyone running in the distance or hiding nearby.
Ronald stood still for a moment and smelled the night air.
Nothing unfamiliar.
He turned and went back into his house.

Ronald lazily went towards the living room to turn off his TV and go to sleep.
Whump-whump-whump!
“Goddammit!”
He sprinted back to the door, knife at the ready, and flung it open.
The wind rustled the bushes gently.
A few leaves skittered on the sidewalk.
Ronald’s eyes narrowed.
He reached back into his house and turned off his porch light.
Then he shut the door and slinked off to his right, behind the large front bushes.
He waited patiently in the night with his knife open.
The wind blew again, drying his eyes.
Ronald didn’t blink.
He waited for at least 30 minutes, crouched and hidden behind his neatly-hedged bushes.
He waited another 30 minutes just to be sure the first 30 minutes was at least 30 minutes.
Nothing happened.
He listened so hard, he could hear the static on his television through the brick wall next to him.
He finally peered over the bushes and into the neighbourhood in front of him.
No lights on, except a few scattered porches.
Ronald narrowed his eyes again.
He decided to check completely around his house.
He crept slowly, knife drawn, behind the bushes that covered the corner of his house.
He made sure not to snap even the tiniest twig.
No one on the right side of his house so far.

He looked gently over his wooden fence, then pushed up on the metal latch slowly enough to keep it quiet.
He lifted the fence slightly as he opened it, so the hinges wouldn’t squeak.
Then he stopped for a moment and listened.
No sound.
He closed the fence gingerly and crouched down again.
He kept to the side of his house and moved forward.

The back door was ajar.
Ronald was absolutely sure he hadn’t left it open.
It was all part of his ritual.
He never missed a single step of his ritual.
He cursed silently and eased open the screen door an inch at a time.
It creaked gently, no matter how slowly he moved, but the way he was opening it would sound as natural as the wind.
Ronald entered the darkness of his home.

He smelled the air in his kitchen.
Nothing unfamiliar.
Ronald grimaced and began to chew on his lip.
It took ten full minutes for Ronald to close both back doors silently, one after the other.
He locked the deadbolt and listened for the intruder.
Silence.
Better safe than sorry.
Ronald went to the front door quietly.
It was still shut.
He locked the deadbolt and the chain silently.
All the little hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
He realized that the television had been turned off.

His eyes grew wider.
He wiped the sweat off his forehead, then off his upper lip.
He wiped both hands on his jeans.
Ronald needed something better than this knife.
He needed to go downstairs and get his tools.
He slowly walked to the basement door.
It was already open.
He slid through and closed it behind him.
Now he was immersed in darkness.
He held his sweaty knife in his right hand, and slowly splayed his left hand out in the darkness.
If he felt anyone, he planned to grab them close and stab them again and again.

The air was cool and musty.
He walked down a stair, and felt around in the darkness.
He walked down another stair and repeated.
With every step, he felt more sweat gather on his brow.
He lost track of how far down he had come.
Surely he didn’t have this many steps.
He stopped feeling for a moment and listened.
Silence.
Nothing but the sounds of his lungs emptying and his neurons singing.
Ronald knew someone was down here.
He could feel them.
This was HIS room; his special place.
Just by being here, this person was violating his sanctuary.
He walked down another step, feeling in the darkness.
And another step.

He put his foot down gently again, but the floor shoved it back; he had finally reached the bottom.
Ronald hunched down, in case the intruder was also feeling around in the darkness.
More than likely, he was waiting; listening for any movement at all.
Listening for Ronald breathing.
Ronald held his breath.
He waited, crouched with his hand out, in the ink of the basement.
He couldn’t hear anyone breathing, but the feeling was stronger than ever now.
Ronald was almost positive of where the man was.
The slightest noise meant his death.

Ronald moved silently along the right wall of the tiny room, shielding his body to the wall in case he was suddenly struck.
He felt in the air with his left hand for anything solid.
He finally felt the back right edge of the room.
His tools were in the other back corner, just a few feet away.
The man was either in the middle of the room, by his special little chair, or along the opposite wall.
Instinct would tell him not to stay in the corners.

Ronald took a step closer to his tools.
He paused to listen.
Someone else was breathing very very carefully in the middle of the room.
Ronald grinned.
He’d be able to get his tools.
He moved with patience, but confidence toward his leather satchel.
He felt the other corner of the room.
He gently reached up and felt for the handle of his long-bladed steel knife.
He was able to slide it out of its leather case without even a creak.
The breathing in the middle of the room grew faster.
Ronald felt his own heart beating more quickly.
He squared himself with the middle of the tiny room he knew and loved, and crept a step towards his favourite child-sized chair.

He stepped again silently, both arms closer to his body, ready to strike.
He was right behind the tiny chair now, poised and ready to strike.
Ronald heard the quickened breathing of the person right in front of him, and he leaned closer.
Ronald slowly raised his arms up and out into the blackness on either side of him, like a bat stretching its wings.

Like a flash, he swung his arms forward and stabbed both hands into the darkness.
His arms passed quickly through thin air; cold air.
He broke out in goosebumps as he retracted his hands through the freezing pool of nothingness sitting in the children’s chair.
Ronald distinctly heard a whimper, not six inches in front of him.
The very pit of his stomach froze and the hairs on the back of his neck curled upward.
Ronald heard soft crying as a violent pain broke into his left shoulder.
Instinctually, he arched his back and reached behind him.
One of his own knives was stuck through his shoulder up to the handle.
He pulled it out and realized with horror that it was the jackknife he thought he was still holding.
He felt another pain pierce through his belly.
He doubled over and pulled out his long-bladed steel knife.
He slashed through the air with both knives, striking nothing.
The cold spread from his wounds throughout his body.
He fell to the floor, realizing that his hands were both empty.
As the cold completely enveloped him, he heard his leather kit being opened.
He drooled blood onto the stone floor.
“Please… please don’t…”
No words.
Only breathing.
Upstairs, the television turned back on, filling the house with the sound of static…

NOISE. TALKING. STRANGERS. FRIENDS. DRINKS. SMOKE. LAUGHTER.
Michelle isn’t drunk. Why did she throw up? Michelle isn’t sick.
Rachel approaches. Rachel’s wearing a stupid necklace. Her boyfriend Brett is probably off making out with someone else. They don’t care about each other. They’re sick. They should vomit when they kiss.

Rachel is suspicious.
“Have you seen Brett?”

Michelle will never.
“No.”
Michelle will never again.

Rachel narrows her eyes.
“Help me find him.”

COMMAND. GUILT. DOMINANCE. SUBSERVIENCE.
“Ok.”

Michelle and Rachel begin their adventure!!
They were both bored, but now they have PURPOSE. They have DIRECTION. They are playing a game. The rules are simple.
Rules are simple.
When people break rules, things get complicated.
Thou shalt not sleep with thine best friend’s boyfriend because that’s like, totally messed up.
Michelle is going to vomit RIGHT NOW. Wait. No.
Michelle’s vomit waits. Michelle might vomit. She should be ready to vomit. In case her vomit decides to vomit. Leave. Expel itself. Expatriate itself from her. Head north for the winter. Head south for the winter. Excuse itself in a timely manner from her mouth and throat.

It’s getting late. It’s probably getting late. What time is it? Is it getting late?
Michelle checks her phone.

LOUD NOISES. TALKING. LAUGHING. DRINKING. ELBOWS.
Michelle reads her phone.

Michelle forgets what time her phone just told her.
Michelle checks her phone.

Late.
She hasn’t had her period yet.
Late.
Her Hello Kitty phone charm jangles with the few remaining beads still attached. SO CUTE. The rest have fallen off. There were a few more beads the weekend before last. That night. She saw her phone on the bedside table and noticed the charms. Pretty lame sex if all she remembers are phone beads. SO CUTE. It wasn’t great. Bad sex. Shouldn’t have happened. Vomit-worthy.
Rachel pulls Michelle into the kitchen. The kitchen is quiet.

Rachel is stupid.
“Where is he?”

Michelle is stupid.
“I don’t know.”

Rachel is naïve.
“I think Brett’s cheating on me.”

Michelle is a bad friend.
“What makes you say that?”

Rachel’s instincts are not stupid.
“He’s always busy now and the weekend before last, when I was out of town, he told me he wasn’t going to any parties or anything, but Jennifer said she saw him at Dylan’s party. Weren’t you there?”

Michelle is a liar.
“Yeah. I didn’t see him there.”

ACT II.
Girls go upstairs.
Girls go into Bedroom 1. Girls find two boys who are supposed to be straight engaging in gay activities together. Girls gasp. Exit Bedroom 1. Girls talk quickly about possibly gay boys. Girls come to a decision. This private love between two people will become as public as possible. Girls cackle together.
Girls enter Bedroom 2. Bedroom 2 is a child’s room. No one sober engages in adult activities in a child’s room. Bedroom 2 is occupied by two people who are not sober. They are swimming in a sea of bright stuffed animals. Each one independently races to his/her finish line. Girls exit Bedroom 2. Girls laugh, part 2.
Girls enter Bedroom 3. Bedroom 3 contains: one Boyfriend, one Slutty Bitch. Girls experience different emotions. Boyfriend notices Girls. Slutty Bitch does not recognize Girls. Slutty Bitch continues being a Slutty Bitch all over Boyfriend. Girls exit Bedroom 3. Girl 1 cries. Girl 2 surprisingly feels nothing, except sickness.

ACT III.
Michelle goes into the bathroom. Vomit.
Michelle wonders absent-mindedly if morning sickness can happen at night.
Michelle blacks out.

…How long had she been stuck here on this dock?
At least a few days. Probably not a whole week. Maybe a whole week. It was getting harder for her to keep track of time now…
No appointments to keep or schedules to make.
Never late anywhere.
Peaceful.
Wait.
Wait wait wait…

She was being pulled out of the water.
Audrey buzzed with excitement.
What if it was that curious boy?!
Or a whole group of curious teenagers!
No.
The shoes didn’t look like teenager shoes. They were shiny black shoes underneath black pants.
Police shoes.
Oh no.
Audrey was shoved into a large black bag. She watched the zipper close over her head.
Then she was thrown somewhere roughly. Some part of her cracked.
Why couldn’t they have just left her alone and in peace to contemplate?
What would happen now?!
Audrey felt panic for the first time in… how long?

She was placed on her back. Was the ride over?
The bag was unzipped.
Audrey was in a morgue. She was sure of it. Metal all around and beige on the ceiling. Some kind of foamy ceiling? Her vision was a bit cloudier now that she was out of the water…
Men with glasses looked at her for a bit, then she was pushed inside a large metal cabinet.
She sat staring in the dark.
Suddenly she saw a fish!
Rising up out of the darkness to investigate her like they did.
No. False alarm.
She was just used to floating on the lake. There was no fish here. Also she was on her back still. That was difficult to remember. Orientation.

Audrey was rolled out of the big metal cabinet. A few police officers looked at her. One closed her eyes. Something made a zipping noise. She was pushed back inside the big metal cabinet.
She couldn’t see anything at all now, even if there was something to see. They took that away from her. She could still hear, though, which was nice.
Every once in a while, she heard a few men outside. Minutes passed. Hours? Hours, probably. Surely not days. Maybe days.
She was rolled out again from the big metal cabinet. There was a zipping noise.
“This her?”
“Yes. That’s her.”

That voice…
A man’s voice.
So familiar. But different. Someone she knew had a voice like that, but it was different now. Changed.
How long ago had she known that person…?
Audrey thought about the voice for a long time.
So familiar. Something different.

She was jostled and hoisted and thrown somewhere.
Something else broke.
People weren’t being very careful with her.
Not that she cared.
She was traveling somewhere now. Bumps here and there. A back road.
Audrey imagined she was drifting along a river. Every bump was a dip or a twist in the rapids.
Rainbow Trout swam with her.
Salmon swam against her.
She saw the sky overhead.
Birds flying from tree to tree. Some of them looked at her as she passed them by.
She felt the sun on her face.
What a beautiful day…

The bag was unzipped over her head.
It pulled out a few of her hairs on its way down.
Someone opened her eyes.
Her vision was so blurry now. She could hardly see the person’s outline.
The someone inspected her closely, and then leaned back.
He sighed.
It was a he.
The man opened what sounded like a tackle box.
He leaned towards her with something tiny and pointed in his hand.
A tiny paintbrush.
She saw his face a bit more clearly.
It was solemn. He was being very gentle with her.
The man moved her face all around, turning it and gently squeezing here and there.
The man set his tiny brush down on a tiny side table and hooked something up into Audrey’s arm.
He lifted her arm, bent it at the elbow gingerly, set it down.
He lifted her leg, bent it at the knee gingerly, set it down.
He was very professional in his inspection. Routine.
Then he got up, switched off the lights and left Audrey in the dark.
Audrey felt something happening inside her body; something strange and unsettling.
Her blood was being forced to move again, somehow. It was being… replaced?
The light came back on a few… minutes later?
Hours…?
Days…?
Hmm.
The man unhooked whatever it was in her arm.
He bent her arm, then set it down.
It moved much more easily than before.
Strange.
The man removed her dress. She saw him throw it away.
Then he got out a new… horrible one.
Flowers all over it. Billowy. Not the dress Audrey would wear at all.
She hated it.
Someone had liked dresses like this, though.
The man with the voice. From the morgue.
So familiar…

The mortician picked up his tiny paintbrush and started brushing it across her face.
It was a very soft kind of scraping.
Not unpleasant.
He painted her nails. Fixed her hair.
He was probably making her look very pretty.
Soon he was finished.
Soon…?
He closed her eyes again.
She was moved into a box.
A coffin!
She was going to have a funeral!
Of course!
She hadn’t even thought about that…
Oh, who would show up!?
Who did she know again?
She couldn’t remember.
She would remember when she saw them, though.
She would be able to hear that voice again.
That man’s voice.

Audrey waited.

The coffin never opened.
How long had she waited?

She and her coffin were moved.
Someone mumbled something.
Audrey distinctly heard the word “God” a few times.

Audrey heard something falling onto her coffin.
Intermittent raining.
Dirt.
Oh.
So… that was it.
Now there would be nothing else.
Audrey’s heart sank.
Was there still something to look forward to?
Could something still happen?
Maybe this was just a waiting period of some kind.
Maybe heaven had a long line of applicants.
Although… no one had approached her yet about filling out any forms or… whatever it was she needed to do.
She wished she had something to distract her. Nothing.
Just her thoughts.
Audrey tried thinking of new things like she always did.
And like always, the thoughts at the back of her mind tried to surface.
She wouldn’t let them, but they were persistent.

Why was she here?
What had happened that day at the lake?
Nope.
How big was the universe?
If it was infinitely big, how was that possible?
What had happened?
If it was that big, that meant that nothing existed outside it. Or were there still limits? Like rings, or spheres. Matryoshka doll universes, one inside the other…
Whose voice was that at the morgue?
How was it different?
If there weren’t stars all the way out, what was there? Just blackness?
That day at the lake was violent.
What about God?
What if God was just the collected, um, unconscious of everyone on Earth?
The voice was there that day. Familiar, but different.
How different?
Colder. Detached.
Audrey fought against the thoughts. The thoughts that made her sad.
He had been so sweet. Her own curious boy. She had never seen it coming…
If people were destined to do certain things, then why were they allowed to think whatever thoughts they thought? Or were those thoughts pre-determined as well?
He had killed her. Brutally. Unmercifully. No sign of the love she had come to know…
NO.
She fought against those thoughts. There were so many positive things to think about!

…But Audrey could only stop her thoughts for so long…
A few hours? Days? Years?
Then there was nothing left to do but remember.

One hundred and three. Degrees. Hot is an understatement. Texas summers are hot.
Some people like the heat. I do not. I prefer the cold. Bundled up. Layered.
In the summer, I feel… exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. Sweating. Stinking. Horrible. Like a pig walking down the street.
People smile as they pass one another. Smiling pigs. Meat sizzling in the sun. Bacon in a frying pan.
I’m a vegetarian. A lot of butchers are.

We’ve evolved past the point of eating meat. We don’t have to eat it. People still do.
For taste.

I’m irritable. You know the heat makes you irritable? It’s true. Most people know it, even if they don’t know it, you know? Statistically speaking, most crimes are committed in the summer, on the night of a full moon, against family.
Facts sometimes reveal more than we want them to.

A bum. A fucking bum is asking me for money? Can you believe that?! A fucking! A fucking BUM!

I love the little stores in this town. I always know where to get what I need. I like knowing that. It’s like the whole town is my home. These stores are my rooms.
I don’t really have a home anymore though. I move too much. But I always come here at least for a few weeks. I.
I actually don’t know why I keep coming back.

You know what it is? It’s the humidity. It’s not the heat. It’s that the shade doesn’t do any good. Isn’t that funny?! How can shade not do any good?!

There’s a girl here. She reminds me of you. Her eyes. Something. If only she would smile. But she never smiles at me. She smiles at other people, sure! Other jackasses with chiseled chins and fucking polo shirts. Dime-a-dozen cheap fucks! But she never smiles at me. I hate her. HATE.
She gets off work around 11, when the coffee store closes. Shitty chain coffee. Fucking horrible coffee! Then she gets into her beat up red Jeep Cherokee. Fucking college car if I ever saw one. She doesn’t go to college! NO! She goes straight home to her shitty little apartment with her cat and her television.
She could really make something out of herself, you know? But she doesn’t. She just wastes her life. Her LIFE! She’s wasting the most precious. Her LIFE, you know?! Just staring at that television every night. AND day. Daytime television. The worst. The WORST kind of television. Fake judges. Fake talk shows where people have fake problems. Stupid reruns of silly pointless comedies from the seventies. Gilligan’s Island. That kind of shit. Beverly Hillbillies. “Concrete pond.”

I’m sorry. I don’t mean that you would have turned out like that. I can see how you might take that the wrong way. I’m sorry. You’re much better than. You would have been much better than that. Than her. I’m sure of it.

I miss you.

I wonder how long she’s lived there. No family. No boyfriend. Barely a job. BARELY. If you can call it that. I don’t even see how she’s alive. Frozen microwave dinners! Can you believe it?! Like that’s enough for someone to live on. Like that doesn’t rot you from the inside out. Fucking chemical fake-food BUT IT’S ONLY 99 CENTS! White trash poor dog food. No vitamins of minerals. FUCKING MSG POISON.

But even then, how does she afford it? Even with such a tiny apartment and that bad CHEAP food, she can’t be making enough to live by herself. I know she isn’t. I read her pay stubs just to be sure, and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t right. She’s not making ends meet by at LEAST three hundred a month. Where does that come from?
She isn’t fucking her landlord. I know.
So where’s it coming from?

You don’t have all the answers. That’s what you’d say. If you were here right now.
I made banana bread this morning. Your recipe. I know how much you.

You know, sometimes, I wonder what you’d say. I mean, what you’d really say if you were here right now. Would you say what I think you would, or would it be different? Would you be different from how I picture you? I don’t want to think about it. Please.

You know the key to a good cut of meat? Let the knife do the work. Don’t force it. DON’T. It’s a trick I learned early on. By practicing. Just go back and forth with the knife like a saw and let the blade do its job. Gently. Don’t try to cut down with force. That’s the easiest way to fuck it up. Just be gentle. Back and forth. Keep your knife sharp. When you get to the bone, use a bone saw. Don’t fuck up your butcher knife by slamming it on the bone. It’s not a fucking hammer. Use a bone saw. Just as gently. Back and forth. Until it comes apart like butter.

I like to think that I make the prettiest cuts of meat. The ones that are really red, you know? Beautiful to look at. Vibrant. Even though I don’t eat them, I’m sure they taste better that way. You can just tell, you know?

When you press down, you squeeze out all the blood. All the colour. The life. The very thing that makes a cut look beautiful. You RUIN it when you do that.

Are you a vegetarian? Would you be, I mean?

This girl.
Karen.
I’m sorry. I should have said her name earlier when I introduced her. Karen. Isn’t a vegetarian, but you know what? I think it’s because she doesn’t realize she has options. She doesn’t do her research. Her homework. Beans and rice are cheap. And they’re good for you. But you have to eat both or it isn’t a complete protein. The rice contains necessary amino acids. Building blocks that make proteins. That’s why they’re always paired together. Even if people don’t know, their bodies know. Their bodies are smarter than they are. Ancient. Instinct. Science, I guess.

Karen’s a fucking IDIOT. A waste of a human being. She doesn’t smile at the right people. ME.

I’m getting tired of waste. REFUSE. People all around me. Just walking pieces of garbage. Like a Big Gulp cup that’s been flattened by a tire. It just sits there. Broken. Not a cup anymore. It can’t hold anything of function at all. Just takes up space. Pollutes. It can fucking run its mouth, though. HO BOY! Lying there. Not doing anything. Sitting on the street like a couch potato. Every time you see it, it says the same fucking thing- “Big Gulp!”
Like you didn’t fucking get it the first time.
And you just want to fucking. You just want to smash its face in. Until it can’t say anything. Put it into a landfill with all the other garbage that walks down the street.
But! What would happen? NOTHING! It’s already a waste! It’s already smashed! It can’t get any more.

Where did intelligence go? There’s more creativity than ever, but there’s no intelligence behind it. There’s no sense of purpose. It’s just spew and spew and spew. Who cares? Spew doesn’t change the world. Intelligence. Now that. That’s something. We need more of it. We need to promote it. Foster it.

I think psychiatrists do a lot of the. A lot of the fucking up, you know? In that department. They don’t promote intelligence. They promote garbage. But it’s not their fault, you know? They’re just trying to get people to not kill themselves. I can’t fault them for that. That’s what we’ve been reduced to. People hate everything so much. They’re surrounded by garbage. They ARE garbage. And they know it. They know they should just kill themselves. Make room for intelligence, which they don’t have. Can’t have. So they go to a psychiatrist. And the psychiatrist convinces them that even though they’re garbage, it’s ok. Everyone is garbage. It’s ok. And they don’t have to be intelligent. They don’t have to be more than garbage. They just have to not kill themselves and that’s enough.
THAT’S enough?!
That’s our status quo?!
Just get by from day to day. Don’t aspire beyond your means. Don’t reach for the stars because you know, deep down, that you won’t get them. You’ll get in the way of someone who’s really smart. Who’s intelligent.

But you know what that does? This pathetic garbage- this Big Gulp- ends up working day in and day out at a company they don’t give two shits about. Like that shitty coffee place. And because time is the great equalizer, they eventually get promoted. For nothing. For not quitting! For not dying! For not killing themselves!
They get promoted. And their brain doesn’t know what to do with it. Suddenly they’ve just been told that they AREN’T garbage. And because- not in spite of- BECAUSE, deep down they know they ARE a fucking Big Gulp, they have to compensate for that feeling. They’ve always wanted to be important and now they are! They’re somebody! They have money and they make decisions!

But they’re still a fuck-up. They’re still a worthless piece of GARBAGE. And their decisions…
Here’s how their decisions work:
Someone actually intelligent has an idea. A great idea, really. Something revolutionary. And they bring it to this Big Gulp manager. And this Big Gulp knows how great the idea is! That’s the thing! They fucking KNOW it’s great.
BUT they shoot it down. They HAVE to. Because it’s a terrifying reminder of the truth. And not only that, but they have to put on this big show about JUST HOW terrible this idea really is. They berate the intelligence. They come up with BAD reasons for why this great thing won’t work.  Really bad, you know? And all the other people around also know how GOOD the idea is! But they agree with the Big Gulp asshole because they’re garbage too. They’re terrified too!
And. The intelligence dies. It happens every day. Over and over.

And these people. These smiling fucking pig people. These Big Gulps. Walking down the street and smiling at each other. They’d fucking doff their fucking piggy hats at each other, except nobody does that with a baseball cap.

So Karen sits in her apartment and watches television. Because she was shot down. Someone told her her intelligence was stupid. Was bad. And she has nothing now. She could have been something.

I want her to fight. I hate her because she won’t. I hate that she’s given up like some kind of coward. Like that guy in the war who just lays his rifle down finally and gets riddled with bullets because he’s done. Given up.
She’s already dead, so it really won’t matter when I.

Jesus, it’s fucking hot outside. Waiting in the heat. For the perfect moment. It’s hard to be patient in heat like this, but I will be. I have to be.

I miss you. So much. Do you know that? You wouldn’t give up. You wouldn’t lie down. You’d fight. Like me. You’d try to make things better. You’d get rid of the garbage.
Wouldn’t you?