Ted Bundy's Nephew Jack
The four inch blade hovers,
glistening in the florescence of the kitchen sink light.
Face mirroring, I don’t recognize my eyes, nor hers.
Those brown eyes darting like a scared bunny on Easter,
never the same place twice.
The pooling under her bare legs, smells a mix of blood
and urine. If I kick her, will she move?
The terror transfixes me, traps me like I’ve
trapped her here now and my hamster four years before.
The Russian dwarf named Dexter, alone in his aquarium
tank cage one night, and caught in rope with each
toe, finger, claw plucked off by tweezers the next.
A gasp escapes me- the claw marks from the last four fingers
raked across my ankle, lead to the pulling of useless legs
down the hallway.
Four steps and I meet her. Four steps and I am god.
Bringing life? No. Taking life? Yes.
Life. A word that only myself
understands. Full of life- this woman at my Doc Martened feet clinging
to wood floorboards once was. Unlike the lifeless man, her husband, in the basement
where the Golden Tee game chimes every hour on the hour
with some catchy jingle that makes the cat jump. She found him four hours ago,
here we are now. Eyes wide, part of him and her drip down the blade
onto the hilt, trickling down my forefinger, forearm,
and puddle on the floor, as the knife dives.
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