Today I got home from running and there were six police cars parked outside my house.
One was technically an SUV. The other five were cruisers.
Maybe all the cruisers designated to this town.
And there were cops questioning the other people on the street.
I don’t know exactly what happened because I don’t have a relationship with any of my neighbors and I don’t have the balls to just go out and ask a stranger if someone was murdered but I think someone was murdered here.
Just two houses down.
Now there’s a yellow-taped police line and I’m left with a feeling of unease greater than any I felt when I was alone in the old house with Edith prowling around the grocery store or driving past leering at the windows.
I wonder if the locks would hold.
I wonder who would want to kill that man – someone I knew only by sight.
He had mouse-brown hair and a non-descript moustache.
I saw the police officer loading his dog into a carrier because now there would be no one to feed it, walk it, yell at it to come home after quiet hours.
He used to wander aimlessly on his porch while I pretended not to watch him.
Just yesterday he was outside arranging and re-arranging the random objects he had collected onto his porch railing.
I almost feel as though I don’t feel enough fear.
Something must be wrong with me.
Somehow immune to that sort of tragedy.
Like a killer wouldn’t come back for more the next night.
Easy prey in a place no one frequents.
The dark woods.
The crackle of the creek over rocks and garbage and the waterwheel put here by the landlord who knows nothing and the white pipe that feeds it and the displaced fire pits and the feeling that no matter what I do or how quiet my fingers glance across the keyboard, someone is watching me do it, and planning my personal end.