When pulling into the carport this morning mistook the thud under my tire as a flat, as I opened the car door realized I had taken a life, there a mouse on its back barely breathing. I wanted to find a way to honor this life, found a spot in the backyard to bury the body. But the dishwasher repair man was at my front door. Hello? Hello? I’m here for the repair request. What was I to tell him, come back in an hour when I know how to respectfully get rid of the body. Took a deep breath, pretended everything was okay. It felt so urgent to figure out what to do with the dead. Maybe because murder is a part of my bloodline, I used to say if it had been me, it would have been different. I bury the innocent in the backyard as an offering, selfishly, to try to pay the debts of my past. I’ve hurt a lot of people, I’ve hurt myself, made poor mistakes. The repairman called to me from inside, ma’am there’s nothing wrong. But there was something wrong. I don’t think we spoke the same language. I don’t think we were even looking at the same machine.
Massey Armistead is a writer located in Nashville, TN. She is currently getting her MFA in creative writing at The University of Memphis. Her work has been published in GXRL Pod, Other Worldly Women Press, and Waxing and Waning Literary Journal.
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