November 23, 1967

“Maybe I’ll just destroy them and never do it again.” Of what he had been speaking of, certainly nothing that fixed my mind in the mere direction of the entire thought, of the entire direction he aimed towards. What was it? Something he has been hiding beneath the wool of his sleeve? Something he pinched under his skin or something that remained out from the bent shadow casted from above. Something I was too blind to see. . . that directed away from me by my abborhed sentiment I regarded for him. I knew of his tricks that manipulated the youth of my girlhood, I knew of how his words dripped poison from his lips, of how his canines were sharper than cottonmouths. He struck briskly, yet only made it known once his victim had fallen. Poison, watch, destroy. It was guiding me insane, and I began itching down onto my skin with the sharpest of nails trying to connect the dots that slipped from my fingers, I had to know.

I sent him a letter that day. I had convinced a gentleman on the street with a few dollars to turn it into his mailbox, and he gratefully did so after the flash of dyed cotton and the glint of a few quarters. Stalking amongst the trees I followed him to be sure of myself, that my pick of the few would be trustworthy enough and not some fraud. I shall stand correct, he dropped it into the mailbox that sat perched upon the concrete pillar of his apartment, and rang the doorbell. From the mend of the lace curtains, his eye watched, and I could be sure that the foot of the curtains had been stained vermillion. I could almost see it dried over his cuticles if I squinted. The pair of eyes watched until the man left, then returned to the mailbox to pluck the parchment wrapped merely perfectly in white, his pupils resting on the reddened kiss I left in the upper right corner. It was meant for his wife to think upon, not to the absence of the public whose ghosts danced in the faint trickle of grey cloud tears. Pried from the arms of the envelope, he read over it, his head craning past the concrete pillar to catch a glimpse of my hired deliverer. He was gone, yet my initials were signed! He should be searching for me. . . And then his eyes met mine from between the arms of pine that danced in the soft breeze. Through the sight of my pistol.