roses for the dead

the death was fleeting, quiet. you had seen her walk around the neighborhood, but hadn't really known her until you look down to find a knife plunged in your stomach.

the detatchment had been quick, like peeling out of your skin. you watched as she took your body, not really yours anymore, and buried it in the backyard, under the rosebushes, there, but almost.

cat cried when she couldn't find you. she called your phone again and again, and started crying when she found it buried in between the couch cushions.

the nameless woman, the holder of the knife, appeared in the doorway four hours later, holding a casserole and blushing from the cold. you could see the blood on her hands, but cat couldn't.

they talked and talked and talked, and all you could do was watch. you couldn't walk away. the house was now a prison, the walls pressing together, suffocating the breaths you didn't have.

that night ended with a kiss on the cheek.

cat had promised she would call the cops before the nameless woman had arrived. she called two days after that promise.

she ran away, her car is gone, see, it's nothing to worry about. she'll come back, maybe.

cat knew you were dead, a spark had gone out in her head the instant your heart had stopped. but she slowly formed a picture, as the nameless woman stole her thoughts away. you crashed your car while you drove away from her. you deserved it.

you wish you could tell her.

but you'll have to do the second best thing.

if you concentrate, you can plunge your hands through the veil.

you'll make the nameless woman's doing poetic, the way cat always liked. poetic things were beautiful things.

you drift through the backyard, scatter rose petals, a path to your burial site, the disturbed dirt.

a shovel. the same one the nameless woman used. she was careless, there are fingerprints on the handle.

there are so many things you didn't get to say. that cat will never hear.

and it's the nameless woman's fault.

so now you will undo her.