By Stephen Allan
This is an apartment. This is my apartment. It is small. It is meant for two people, not three. The bed is in the living room. A chair is knocked over in the corner. There is red on the walls. The smell of sex is in the air.
This is a gun. This is my gun. It is dull along its barrel and the wooden grip is scratched. It doesn’t have any bullets in it… anymore. My gun smells of burnt powder. If I touch the barrel, it would burn my fingers.
These are handcuffs. These are my handcuffs. They are clamped around my wrists. They are heavier than I thought they would be. They are cool to the touch. If I twist my hands, they bite into my skin.
This is yellow crime tape. This is my yellow crime tape. It is stretched across the apartment door. It says do not cross. It says crime scene. The breeze from an open window causes the tape to flutter.
These are police officers. These are my police officers. They read me my rights and ask me questions. They wear badges on their chests and pistols on their hips. Their radios squawk with reports of other crimes. If I try to run away, they seize me.
This is a wife. This is my wife. This was a wife. This was my wife. She is wearing see-through lingerie with no underwear. Her eyes are open. She hasn’t blinked in over an hour. She used to love me.
This is a liar. This is my liar. He is slumped beside the wife. He is slumped beside my wife. He has the same parents as me. He is naked. He has a hole in the middle of his chest.
This is a bed. This is my bed. It has wrinkled sheets. The wife and the liar are on the bed. It has sex stains on it. It has blood stains on it. The slight scent of perfume lingers on its pillows.
These are reporters. These are my reporters. Some have cameras and try to take my picture. Some have notebooks and yell questions. My police officers bar them from the apartment.
These are tears. These are my tears. They run down my face and into my mouth. They taste like salt. The tears wet my cheeks, but I do not wipe them away.
This is a murder scene. This is my murder scene.
This is a writer. This is my writer. He is sitting at his desk. He is rubbing his eyes. He wonders where I came from. He is not like me. He thinks he would never do anything like I have done. But he knows where I came from him. He sits in his apartment. It is a small apartment. It is meant for two people, not three. The bed is in the living room. There is red on the walls. The smell of sex is in the air.
- Originally published by Flashing in the Gutters, April, 2006.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Since a few other people have been posting their Flashing in the Gutter stories on their sites, I'm going to do the same. This was the first flash that Tribe put on Gutters. It was a post-mod experiment - how very MFA of me - but I like the way it turned out. If you read it back in April, or if you're reading it for the first time; let me know what you think.