The churchbells ring at three am. I'm walking across the sidewalk quickly. The clear peal of bells shocks the air from my lungs.
What the hell?
I'm walking alone, at night, and I hear not a sound before or after the bells. I think to myself: if I was on edge before...
I grip the hood of my jacket around me tighter. The night's chill whips at my face. My eyes sting.
I have to get home.
Once I start running, I can't stop. Just a block more.
The house I pass has a single lit window. I think it must be an attic. Who lurks in their attic at 3am?
Who prowls the streets at 3am?
I think of all the skeletons in my closet, and muse over those belonging to the soul occupying the attic. We are cut of the same cloth. Kindred spirits.
I reach my back door. I can smell the basil and rosemary I keep in the garden. I let it calm me. I fumble for the key.
My hand shakes, and my fingers leave tar black smudges on the handle and doorframe. I fall into my kitchen. My breath is ragged. My dog is alarmed, and greets me with a whine. I reach to him, but stop myself.
Get to the shower.
I stumble upstairs, slipping over a pile of newspaper. I haul myself into the shower after scarcely removing my clothes. The water is not hot enough, the soap not lathered enough.
I scream, the sound echoing in my mind and in the cubical. I curse my life. I scream my throat raw.
Red runs down my chest, across my belly, down my legs, and into the drain. As it spirals into the water, I scrub at my skin, and the washcloth comes away pink. I stare into that drain for a long time.
I calm down slowly, and I tell myself this: The blood is not mine.
I turn off the faucet, grab a towel. I stare into a mirror, looking for a change I know does not manifest in the set of my eyes, the crease of my mouth. The change is nothing so tangible. It sits deep inside me, a nausea that will never settle.
I look into my own eyes and say this aloud:
"Is this the face of a murderer?"
