Chapter One

from “The thoughts of A." - April 18th

You hadn’t wanted to kill her, but that had already been decided. Dark brown hair. Even through a windshield, it was striking. And for a watcher, which is what you were, brunettes aroused a world you were just beginning to comprehend. It happened whenever you saw a brunette walk by, blase and composed. You felt a part of yourself go numb and somewhere, you didn't know where, an engine started firing, a small turning of emotion you didn’t understand even as you watched it break out of it's pupa into the terrible light. And the California sun acted like a giant incubator on your fevered thoughts. But you never moved a muscle. Never made a sound. You just watched the beautiful women with their sandy, red, and brunette hair trussed up and exploding into pony-tails like Medieval Samurai, skin-tight Spandex shorts hugging their thighs, pulled tight to their crotches under the blazing California sun. You watched them jog down the sidewalk and sashay into Starbucks all sweaty, remote

and imperturbable, just to order a non-fat frappucino and be seen. You thought if you saw one more spectacular blond in a black Jeep, you were going to scream. Instead, you wrote these words on paper, resolved to set down thoughts of fire and death in a child-like scrawl that someone might make sense of.

You saw her wedge a beat-up Nissan into a space in front of that seedy, stucco apartment complex. You had watched her now for three days, knew she was coming back from her work-out, bearing sweat in crevices the light couldn't find, muscles slightly taut, heart accelerated. When she started toward the stairs, you noticed her brown hair was dirty. This offended you. You resolved to make her wash it. You walked fast, bounded up the stairs after her as if on a ride at the amusement park, a sudden thrill making your stomach leap. A passage of your life was revolving before your eyes as you stopped at the top of the stairs, right behind her.

Turning the key, she stepped into her vestibule. You noticed a hammering in your chest when you followed her inside and grabbed her brown hair, hearing that pleasing gasp in the back of her throat, hands flailing, peach-colored fingernails clawing the off-white molding.

Another yank of hair got her full attention, this time wrenching her too hard, a spasm of choking, while you slipped the plastic handcuffs on, no words necessary. You closed the door, nice and easy.

When she looked up at you, her eyes went into the chasm.       

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