FAÇADE, 9
The metal smell burns my eyes and nostrils, although I’m not one hundred percent positive I truly smell it.
The redheaded jogger asks, “I’m going to die from this, aren’t I? Because I couldn’t stop.” Soon the floor turns into a pond of her blood and floods like a basement after bad stop. The blood never quits flowing; instead, a current develops and crimson waves crash along the shores of the walls.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m not drowning.
When I open my eyes again, the redheaded jogger stands up on the bed, dead and as though her nerves jerked her upright for me to see her body drying and cracking apart. Her shell falls to the saturated sheets. Underneath she is an older woman with a prominent brow and chin. She keeps aging, keeps aging.
“Mom?” I ask under my breath, spitting out some of her blood.
“Your mother’s dead, my dear,” she says.
I shake my head, confused. “You’re her. You are dead.”
The old woman grabs the red glass shard and runs it along the bed, laughing as it tears into the foam. At the edge of the bed, she hoists the shard above her head and jumps down to the floor, her chipped smile inches away from my bloody lips. She holds the glass above me and laughs.
Like loose cargo against the side of a ship, my heart pounds against its cage as I spring upright in my bed. I check my chest for any blood or wounds. None. The redheaded jogger next to me is still beautiful, still young, and still alive.
I sigh.
She cracks her eyelids and mumbles, “Is everything all right?”
Instead of answering at first, I lie back down. The redheaded jogger is
The redheaded jogger asks, “I’m going to die from this, aren’t I? Because I couldn’t stop.” Soon the floor turns into a pond of her blood and floods like a basement after bad stop. The blood never quits flowing; instead, a current develops and crimson waves crash along the shores of the walls.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m not drowning.
When I open my eyes again, the redheaded jogger stands up on the bed, dead and as though her nerves jerked her upright for me to see her body drying and cracking apart. Her shell falls to the saturated sheets. Underneath she is an older woman with a prominent brow and chin. She keeps aging, keeps aging.
“Mom?” I ask under my breath, spitting out some of her blood.
“Your mother’s dead, my dear,” she says.
I shake my head, confused. “You’re her. You are dead.”
The old woman grabs the red glass shard and runs it along the bed, laughing as it tears into the foam. At the edge of the bed, she hoists the shard above her head and jumps down to the floor, her chipped smile inches away from my bloody lips. She holds the glass above me and laughs.
Like loose cargo against the side of a ship, my heart pounds against its cage as I spring upright in my bed. I check my chest for any blood or wounds. None. The redheaded jogger next to me is still beautiful, still young, and still alive.
I sigh.
She cracks her eyelids and mumbles, “Is everything all right?”
Instead of answering at first, I lie back down. The redheaded jogger is
