Sniffle in the Dark
Once I heard this sniffling, you know? Hoodie, jeans, rough smile under scruff I could rub my hands on in bed.
Snuff, snuff, snuff, sniffle. Fucking obnoxious, is what it was. I heard it. I heard it and I gotta be honest, I heard blood.
I stabbed him and I walked off the train. I left him for dead and they never found me. I never killed before or since. I don’t even know if he’s dead, but that blood — its warmth, you know? Dark like wine, or, or like molasses on a hot summer day, I guess. Smile. I’ve never seen it, but that’s what comes to mind because it sticks man, it sticks to your soul. The blood, I mean. His voice drops to a whisper, as I scramble to write his words. The blood is still on me. He stares at his hands and smiles, opening and closing them. A heh of laughter, full of dust? But maybe I just need more, maybe only molasses cleans molasses, you know?
I’ve thought about it. Killing. I loved it. And hated it. He looks out the window, thinking, forgetting me. The scent of blood almost made me gag, I was so surprised. I wondered, I wondered if I’d ever feel like this again? So distant, yet every inch of skin on edge. It felt like I had died, and I was my skin, you know? Not in a creepy way, just like — well I felt everything. I was. I was so turned on, if I can call it that. That smile again, half teeth, half feral, half kind and worried and a bit lost. I don’t know how else to explain it. I was. Everything was real and fell apart in that moment. He’s dead, friend. He’s dead. Do you understand? I took a life. I took a life, stole it, stole it dead. He’s dead.
I just walked out of the train and he’s dead.
He looks away, fiddles with his hands, gets up, and leaves.