The three of us stood on the edge of the forest, the cusp of legend. This was the last place where the bones of Jack the pirate were ever seen.
On October 16th, 2009, a boy by the name of Finn Carlton walked into the band room of my high school and closed the door behind him. He pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and fired six shots. Then he tied his belt around a pipe on the ceiling and hanged himself.
If the government doesn’t know about it, they should. After what happened to me. After what could happen to someone else.
A prophet wrote down the phrase, “Santa was coming.”
As the skies were becoming red and cracks in the earth widened, I realized he was dyslexic.
A lumpy wedding dress sat on the floor, spotted with blood. At first, I thought it was the one from my closet. It took a few seconds to realize that the neckline differed from mine, and a few more to realize that a woman was inside of it.
He thought he could hide his crime.
“We stood there in a lake of blood watching a man pull his guts from himself.”
“There’s a man, he’s after me, someone, someone stopped him but I think he’s following me, I hear him, I’m just running—“
I was a thirteen-year-old boy, in a nice house on the hilly outskirts of a Colorado mountain town. The streets were engulfed in trees, and there were no homes within a quarter mile of my own.
Dried blood was crusted over the letters. I had to pick it off with the tip of my thumb, because it wouldn’t rub away with a cloth.