“Living in the shadows long enough eventually turns a woman cold, so my favorite time of the year is winter. It's unpredictable, brutal, and can be one cold-hearted bitch; All things I love about myself.”

The crackling fireplace contrasts my frozen heart, while the snow glues itself to the corner of the window like an artery slowly clogging up. I help myself to another glass of four roses bourbon, the only flowers I feel I deserve. I swirl it around the glass—eye level, fingers tense. My nostrils flare out to sip in the aroma, then I inhale a mouthful of hate while I pound one back. I relax into my brother-in-law's green velvet chair, legs crossed revealing the right amount of sex while I let Kentucky warm my throat and numb the nerves. I flirt the edges of my empty snifter along my leg. The black stockings perfectly balance my cherry red evening gown while the slit kisses my curves. My breasts look like the main course, not the appetizer they used to be. I adjust the borrowed pearls across my neck like a garnish and tuck my platinum blonde falsities behind my left ear. I only wear the glamor for special occasions, and tonight will undoubtedly be one. The platter is prepared. Now I wait for the guest of honor.

A car door indicates he’s on time—An expected occurrence for a lawyer. I inhale the beautiful stench from his drunken nights of cigars and booze and exhale the lifetime of a jealous sister's hate. It's time I finally got what I deserved—The man who loved me first.

The door opens forcefully, and my lustful eyes turn unsettled when my sister, Ruth appears in lieu of him. She grips a note with angst and slams the door with rage. I thought I had prepared for everything. I guess I was wrong.

I am stunned, but holding my composure I squeeze out,

“You’re supposed to be in Memphis. What happened?”

Her scowl burns a hole through my heart and the tone in her voice stabs it.

“Apparently, I’m right where I need to be!”

April rain penetrates deep inside me as I sit here waiting.

Pounding inside my skull,

Rips slowly through my temples.

I told her I would do it, but at what cost?

Listening to my inner voice now, won't help any of us.

Shifting on the soaked bench, I check my watch.

Hours have passed, ten-thirty sharp she said. She’s Late.

Only one reason could deem such a delay. She doesn't care.

We must move to plan B as promised.

Extinguish the child; Playtime is over.

Reluctance overwhelms me as I rise from the bench, yet I still saunter toward the playground.

Squeeking of rusted chains swinging naively allures my ears as I approach closer.

Eric don’t, she shouts from behind, I’m here goddamnit! She won’t crack this egg, Not now.

Agitated at her usual disregard for punctuality, I turn towards her with a fire burning in my eyes.

Stacy, we had an agreement and the boy has got to go.

Ten more minutes, just give me ten more with him.

Eric, he’s your son too. Please.

Rounding back toward the swing set, I advance. The constant reminder of her swings obliviously before me.

Step after step I contemplate his end. I must do this, right, sever all ties, on the lords Day?

Up and down he swings humming a tune. His innocence chokes the back of my throat, but I clear it.

Nothing’s your fault, Ace, I love you more than you’ll ever know. My hand rests on his shoulder.

Daddies and mommies just sometimes fall out of love.

Awkwardly shaking, my hand raises to meet his head. Eric, PLEASE! she shrieks.

You wanted the divorce, Stacy! Then I must end what we started. BANG!—BANG!

Swish, swish, spit,

and a hiss of running water.

The gurgle of a toilet flush,

and the knock of a switch.

Slippers scuffing hardwood.

Bedroom carpet ignites a static zap.

A dial clicks for a fireplace crackle.

Soft ruffling of blankets.

His heavy chest exhales relaxation.

Mine, a squeal of excitement.

Click clack of a cat claw.

Against the wooden floor, he creeps.

Tick Tock from the grandfather clock,

and a Soothing hum from the oscillator.

Snap and pop of a vanilla-bean candle.

The anticipating tap of fingernails on a hardcover.

Pages rub against pages under the flickering light—

A friction I will always love.

The inviting echos of a noir crime—left unsolved

then the constant thrum of silence…

—

—

—

—

—

—

—

…Abrupt buzzing. The clock reads 7:00 am.

The unfinished murder will have to wait until my next lullaby begins.

“My thick skull resonates my mothers voice, "Why so many keys? Keep it simple stupid."

C'mon, C'mon. Teeth chattering, and hands trembling, I’m frantically fumbling through my key-ring. Too many useless fuckin keys, god damnit. His figure enters the alley—Shadow lurking. The dingy street light is no help to find my front door lifeline. The groaning wind numbs my frozen fingers. His ominous whistle gets louder, closer. Weeping with fear, my nose pours out its snot. I screech. No, No, No. My keys suddenly stop shaking. The hair on my neck stands tall. He whispers.

"Kaattiieee, it‘ll be over soon."

Having just smelled the musky scent of a recent rain, while on my daily walk in the yard, I was reminded of the memories from my eight-grade summer. It was just yesterday I was searching for four-leaf clovers under the big oaks on our front lawn, always wishing for the luck of hopeless romance to find me. The damp grass tickled my toes when I ran barefoot chasing after the clouds, and trying to find the double rainbows hidden among them. It was the year of so many changes. I had decided that my favorite color was green instead of purple. I tried fresh-cut sweet potato fries from the county fair for the first time, enjoyed the smell of my father’s grill on weekends, and most of all I got my first kiss from Pat, the boy who lived next door and who I called Patrick when I was mad.

Now, as I lay here flashing a series of reminiscent images against a beige wall, the fifteen-inch TV outside my maximum-security cell catches my attention. I sip on yesterday’s cold brew, while I listen to the news anchor reporting the 20th anniversary of Abigail Murphy, a local teenager who brutally slaughtered her parents, younger brother, and boyfriend, after a summer cookout in July. I grin in celebration and count my blessings that I didn’t get the electric chair, so that I can hear I am still a legend. I guess my Jig isn’t up yet.

I wince in pain as sweat drips off my brows, and scorches the corners of my eyes. The excess makes its way down my face until I can taste the saltiness on my lips. My heart is chugging at top speed as if it's a train barreling down the tracks, and I am a locomotive that refuses to stop. My blistering feet smack against the pavement, and each pounding step sends a bolt of electricity into my ass, jolting me to keep pushing on. I’m in race with Tina, but she doesn’t know it, and there is no time to consider slowing down. I'm approaching seventy feet behind her, and I can already see she's wearing those trendy ass-lifting leggings sold on QVC last week; The purple ones with Laser beams, I think. If for any second, she thinks that her fancy car, expensive clothes, or lavish lifestyle will help her win this race she is sorely mistaken. I’m about to show her what second-hand spandex can really do.

She presents herself as this virtuous yoga instructor in our little corner of town, but you should see what she does behind her castle walls. Her front door revolves with male visitors like there is an open sign always left on. Twenty feet, and my pace is rising. She would hear me now if it wasn’t for her matching purple air-pods stuck in her ears. Suddenly, I smack into a wall of gnats freeing me from my thoughts, and filling me with a protein shake that I didn’t expect. I spit out a couple dozen onto the ground, and keep pushing on. They are disgusting, and I can imagine they taste similar to Tina's tofu order she gets every Friday from the local Won-Ton delivery guy. She earns a free lunch and he receives more than a tip.

We round the corner onto Highlander Street which is known for its quiet, but nosy neighbors. Most of them are old, retired, and soon to be dying, and being within arm’s reach of Tina, sends me into overdrive. Today, I very well may be joining one of those old bastards in the hospital. Not so Fast! I grit my teeth, punch at my ribs, and groan in agony as I full-throttle the jets and surge past her. Yes! I’m smirking with celebration while simultaneously trying to catch my breath. Eat my dust bitch. She’s in my rear-view and well behind me for good. As I get closer to the “T” in the road, I dart right, and a few moments after, shoot a glance back at her; she goes left. Sunday, 3:24pm. 19 minutes, 23 seconds; My fastest time yet.

The crackled hiss of my third drag invigorates my senses. The smooth menthol glides into my lungs and a sip of Brandy washes that down. I find myself day dreaming among the darkness of the witching hours. 3:37am. A “hoot” in the distance from a fellow night owl, cuts through the silence. Like him, I am perched outside my balcony window, loosely wrapped in my baby-blue robe, and freely exposing my naked body, as the breeze pulls at its edges. The night air is just chilly enough to lift the goosebumps from my skin. My mind is at peace. Darkness, you are my best friend. You've never betrayed me. My hand raises for another drag, but I am rudely broken from my mindful trance by Cynthia, the rude and deplorable bitch next door.

"What the fuck is she doing? " I mumble, while exhaling a less than satisfied cloud into the air.

I stoop my body for a better look, careful to remain hidden behind my plants. She is struggling to drag something, a bag I think, but her heave and pull method, though it works, is clearly creating an unnecessary workout. She stops every ten feet to catch her breath and minutes go by until she finally makes it to the trunk of her green Subaru Outback. She wheezes while standing the bag up against the bumper, and manhandles it with her shoulders and legs the rest of the way up. A forceful hip check finishes the job. Cautiously, she closes the hatchback with a faint click, and with immediacy scurries to the driver’s side. The hue of white and red car lights illuminates my face and the shadows of my plants are cast across the side of my house. Just as abruptly as she intruded my night, she equally vanishes from it, and my cloak of darkness is restored, but my curiosity of the bizarre event that I just had witnessed continues to scratch the inside of my skull. Where the hell is her husband, Bill?

With his usual nonchalant stride, Peter shuffles down the front steps in his wife’s fancy gold slippers. His robe flowing swiftly behind. Their private drive is lined with perfectly manicured red and yellow rose bushes, in-bloom, and as flamboyant as he is. That usual pompous smile dons his face as he prepares to grab his beloved Forest Hills Bulletin, which I watched Jimmy from Cedar Street, deliver at 5:30 this morning. It is the same fake smile that I can't stand, while he bends over like an old man with a herniated disk. He winces in pain as he visibly struggles, which is puzzling, as he is only forty-five, an active runner, and health nut. I tap my foot rapidly with impatience for what seems to be eternity until he finally aligns himself upright. He stretches his hips forward, and arches his back to re-calibrate, then takes in one long inhale of the dry spring air and again smiles from ear to ear; But as I sit here eating my dry toast, with no butter, all I can think is, just hold the happy thought Peter, because I know what you did.