This is where I pull the blade from the skull of the man who came limping in a flail of limbs, drooling blood. This is where I shut the room's magnetic door by the illuminated button in the panel on the wall. Here, I open lockers and chests to find money and more energy to prolong the hunt. This is my saw in the chest of a dead bug. Here I am swatting horse-flies by the river, rowing oars to the sound of the loons in the dusk. You are with me in the boat and we drift and we float: rippling trees held upside down, song upon call from the growth on the shore, or a log turning end to end on its way out to the sea as you did hand in water. I know you've been here by the webs of your juice smeared on the walls. I am collecting your juice to taste your mouth. These nights that I roam the corridors are endless. I never sleep. I never eat. I search. Without the thought of opening a door and finding you there, without the illusion of your skirted legs crossed at a desk, without the image of us rowing back home in the rain, would I ask for an arm to saw the hate out of my heart.
Jamie Grefe lives in Beijing, despite the air. His work appears at The Bacon Review, elimae, New Dead Families, and he's currently working on a punk/slasher novella while learning how to be a father. If you would like more, please visit http://shreddedmaps.tumblr.com.
Volume 2, Issue 6 Back to top