Pigs. Whores. Fucking pigs…
Maybe if he cried, begged on his mother’s life, even just shut up. But he stood there with his arms pinned behind him pants down around his ankles while the woman he had beaten; senseless on the floor and he called us pigs? Whores?
I pushed the knife up under the ribs like I was taught.
Some other half formed word of his contorted with a scream.
I was amazed how easily it wet in
I was amazed
How clear it all was
Notice so many small things
His teeth had color
His filthy khaki shirt stained in the shape of a flying bird
Thrashing hard against the ropes he brings me to. His contortions must have set him free.
Now, he whispers.
Now, he pleads.
Now, he prays –
But its Shirley I hear yelling – Pick it up! You missed. You fucking missed!
Then seriously quiet she says, -Do what I taught you. Remember.
And I did – Observe, Relax, Act.
So I pick up the knife
Observe every inch of him
Wet brown eyes
Buckling hairless knees
This time, slowly steadily with the knife search
Until a soft pop inside
A dwindling ah from his never to be heard again mouth
The last heat from his breath against my face