Murder She Wrote

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I am on a long car ride, destination unknown and my father is driving like a bat out of hell. It’s strange that I’m so calm and collected around him, a disparity that proves I’m in a dream. As I hang out the window I contemplate the vastness of the sky tonight. The planets are up close and personal and bright as the sun, all different saturated hues. The moon is violet, and comparably small. We stop to use the restroom and as I situate myself on the porcelain I begin to read the ever so important moments, captured in sharpie.

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Call me for a good time and a phone number, a picture of a rat, or maybe it’s a mouse, then something strange. Many of the messages, though brief, seem to indicate an alarming amount of distress. Many ask for help, a few disclose terrible fears, each is written in an ink dried dark, which I begin to realize is human blood.

My father is knocking on the door impatiently, and somehow I realize that he has been here before. He is the one these women had been terrified of, these women had been murdered. There was a giant smear that said UP behind the toilet, and I noticed an air duct, which  I could barely squeeze through. I managed to get myself most of the way through the opening before the door burst in and he made a run for my feet.

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I tumbled thankfully onto the ground outside, skinning my palms, and twisting my ankles, and I knew I had to run, it was now or never. Into the woods I fled, running blind until I splashed headfirst into a pond of opaque orange water. I waded in up to my eyeballs and waited in the reeds, hoping the water would conceal me. It tasted like blood, and I could feel the outlines of various skeletons with my toes, but I stayed quiet. I never saw my father, but I could hear him crashing around angrily, unable to see me.

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