Nobody sees a white minivan. Nobody.
the door slides open, a swift push of the cattle prod and they fall right in, rolled in plastic and taped shut. I drive off and no one ever sees them again.
- It cements the psychosis of the voice, allowing the reader an edge of comfort in their belief. (This is then immediately rewarded.)
- Set the stage for the final reveal.
The walls are gray and smell like disinfectant. The people wear white, some with many keys. I smile at all of them, but they don’t like me.
Criminally insane. That’s the phrase I couldn’t remember. So much is a fog now, I shuffle across hard linoleum from one room to the next, my robe hanging open. Most times I don’t care. I like the colors on the quiet TV. I like the little candy pills in the paper cup. The water tastes funny and isn’t that cold. I can smell something decaying, but it is fleeting; vaporous.
I sit at the steel mesh window and watch the trees and sky. So clear and clean. The woods far off remind me of my other life, the cabin and my van, the people and all the holes I dug. So many holes. So many bones. The shovels were well worn.
Other blog posts by Eric Michalsen