painting murals with red ink
short story
i have heard & read many strange tales in my career.1
these guys sit before me & i ask them questions. they give me terrible answers. i keep a straight face & ask why.
why did you walk up to your neighbour & seed his body with 14 bullets?
they do illogical things with illogical reasons but i ask logical questions. like, why.
should there ever be a why?
after work, i'd clear my table: patients' files, scribbled notes, that & that, my ashtray, oh, keys & all else, then i'd hop out of the office, out of the building, full broad smile plastered on my face like wax. i'd wish malcolm a good night & trudge on without waiting for him to wish me same. his reply would briefly tug at the back of my shirt. malcolm was the clinic gatekeeper on night shifts.
i'd look my car over, pull the door & throw my weight inside. i'd then negotiate with 1/3 of the city's vehicular traffic on my way home, curse & shout at the remaining, & land home, vaguely appreciative of the gift of modern transport.
when i get home, my two boys would wrap & squeeze me at the torso. painful happiness to me. i'd pat their heads.
maria.
she'd have done her hair in a bun, the tiredness would be sitting solidly in her eyes. she'd hug me too, with a softness to it. i'd cradle her face in my hands & plant the kiss strongly on her forehead, not hurriedly like i did earlier in the morning. i'd kiss her on the lips too. she'd half-laugh.
the tv would be jealous of how i stole my family's attention that moment & the actors would shout more furiously in it. my boys would go back to it, saying sorry tv, you know we had to greet dad.
& i look at them, my family, look at how “normal” they are. sitting. giggling. watching tv. the girl at my office earlier was referred by the police. she had killed someone then painted murals on his room walls with his blood.
i am afraid.
my books say the most normal people can become the most abnormal people. you know, a trigger, & repressed animal urges will come rushing to the surface. so scary. i am afraid. i fear that i too may be painting murals with red ink.
from emmanueli know no one reading this would believe i am … trust me, you shouldn’t.
Beautiful piece.
This is so artfully well written. Your diction and imagery is amazing. I love how you paint a picture for the reader to see in their minds eyes. Plus your style of writing is superb. Especially how unique it is with the lowercase lettering.