Too Much Murder

TOO MUCH MURDER

Camera flares catch her unawares, being dragged down courtroom steps, arms held out at the elbows, a thick, stout-jowled bailiff on either side. She squints upward deflecting the questions that hammer her through the winter-whipped air.

"I did it because it needed doing," she says, "because he hurt me, he slipped me tainted euphoria, sexually transmitted doses of ecstasy and anguish."

She stops, holding back the bull-dog men, the adrenaline rush sex-mask glistening in her eyes, this bottled blonde with no justification in her voice, "He was too much murder to live, you know?"

And then this killing woman, this violator of the sacred codes, looks skyward, where redemption is thought to dwell, and sighs once, the breath of lonely atonement vaporizing into crystalline wisps of frost before disappearing forever.

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To be alone, sucks.

To be paired, yet all alone

drives us past the point.

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This haibun (prose/haiku combo) was prompted by those lovers of tabloid poetry over at DVerse Poets.

©2022 Christopher Reilley

 
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