Turning the page, I see a column of words—some short phrases—written in a frantic script. Some are carved into the paper while others are thrown out like a whip. I stare at the page, trying to figure out some rhyme or reason to the information that looks like a shopping list.
-six nights since you threw me onto the street
I shake my head, confused.
I keep reading.
-warm hands, squeezing my arms like a snake bite
-vein in your neck, memory of it against my lips
-porch light flickers
-rain pelts your shirt to midnight blue
Memories? It looks like a female’s penmanship, if a little wild, but there are no capital letters or periods. No sentence structure, as if she’s narrating.
-flood sirens
-blood streams down your temple
-Deacon in the attic window
-quiet in the street
-door closes
-alone
-quiet
Flood sirens… This could be recounting the night Weston flooded two decades ago.
Who pushed her out of the house? Manas? Deacon was in the attic window, so…
-walking to the river
-no tears
-alone
-hair matting my face like skin
-engine behind me
-white car
-I’m alone
For a moment, I feel wet hair sticking to my cheeks too. I’m there with her. Lost.
Her thoughts are staggered, as if she can’t form cohesive thoughts, even six days later. Watermarks dot the page, ink smeared, because she went back and wrote—and re-wrote—words in the margins.
More etchings ofaloneandquiet.
-cold hands, squeezing my arms like a snake bite
-more cold hands
