I’d seen cases like hers before, but none stick so in my mind’s eye as her case file, that fell into my lap twice one Monday morning. I had a real case of the Mondays and red scarlet whispers scrawled on yet another wall in yet another bathroom with the devilspeak written in reverse to be read on the mirror by the slowly dying- one just read faster- that was me, one read it as was written they were dead, and one read it from a place no one knows and repeated such poetry on mirror themself. Below the second stanza a slight movement in the mirror, a glimmer in the glass, just a flash, hand down thumb up in under the coat, they’ve got the jump on me, I wouldn’t have the time, wound him maybe, if not in the head, it’s not their style, not the killers anyway. Eyes, in the window, four eyes, on me.
“I could never tell”
“you weren’t supposed to”
“Do you really have to ask?”
“I mean yeah, I mean if I’m about to die, which I am, yeah it’s definitely enough of a head scratcher to want to ask now.”
“That would suck, sorry friend.”
My world explodes
hand down thumb up in under the coat catch trigger, grip, pull-
ripped shred from shed, point blank back shot shotgun blast
later it is deduced that the impact took out a portion of the killers thigh
The Scrib Nibbler is still out there, writing in entrails,
But they’ve picked up the scent on the trail, now riding Scrib’s end trails
If you know how to track, like I did, the last of us, the trackers.