Everyone knew something about these Crow Kids they weren’t sharing. It’s some sort of town secret but we’re outsiders. When I needed help to know what happened to Jenny these past few days, nobody was answering my questions.
Category: Unreliable Narratives (Page 1 of 2)
I could write you a book about cleaning. If I did, it could have an entire section devoted to getting out your stains. I clean houses. I’m sort of a maid, I guess. I’ve learned a lot about people while doing this and the most important thing I’ve learned is that they’re pretty horrible. Including you. The second most important thing I’ve learned is keeping my mouth shut. I could tell you how to get the bloodstains out of the curtains at 4829 Barren Drive, Apartment 7 — but I probably shouldn’t. Nobody will ask anyway. There wasn’t a spot on them after I left. I cleaned up your mess. I keep your secrets.
“How’s she doing?” I asked, tossing Kyle a beer as he mounted the steps to my porch. Beers around sunset was one of our traditions on the weeknights I was lucky enough to be home. We never drank to excess, just a beer or two after work. Over the course of the past week, Kyle began to seem more and more downhearted each night.
This all began when I was a kid — back when I used to think that the Moon followed me. I’d watch it pass through the clouds as my mother drove her aging sedan down the dark highways, always keeping pace with her erratic turns and speed changes … never falling behind. I’d watch it through the rear window, bouncing from treetop to treetop in time with my bounces in the backseat. Tagging along as the car leapt potholes and divots on the midnight country roads where we sent gravel and dust billowing out behind us.
My brother is Officer Jake Swanson. He’d just graduated from the academy…only just earned his badge. He’d begun his first shift with his field training officer when about an hour in, responding to a call from a pair of campers, they went to that house in the woods. It was his first and last day on the job when he made the gruesome discovery that should be national news.
As I walked, about two blocks up I saw him…the boy. I decided then to abruptly change direction, having heard from others that when coming across this particular child, it was advisable to give him a wide berth. He was climbing out of the sewers. It was abnormal for anywhere else, but par for the course in our little village.
I wonder what Nathan is doing right now.
Nathan Wallows is my favorite singer. His voice is like a tormented angel pulled down to suffer in a tar pit. Haunted. He was fated to be trapped forever in my sticky black heart. Each song he sang resonated chords within me. It would be hard to convince me that each song he wrote and sang wasn’t written just so I could understand him better. That’s how much his body of work spoke to me.
I don’t like children which is unfortunate to my line of work…I call it work, but it’s torture really. If you are working a job that you hate, you always have the option of resigning…of opting out: of just deciding not to show up…