… but at least I am writing again. I think my prose has always been stronger than my poetry, but both need the exercise. This feels inspired by American Psycho, but it really just came out of nothing.

—

You wake up because your head has a heartbeat. The throbbing gives you unnatural awareness at this hour. Dawn. And last night was only moments ago. On the floor of her dingy hotel room, you find needles and other remnants of illicit drugs. And her body, used up like the condoms that have become throw rugs across the rust-colored carpet.

You cough twice, a burn in your throat sharpens you again. You prowl the room, a pomade jaguar, silent and filled with purpose. They will never know you were here.

Her purse is empty, its contents splayed like an autopsy across the grimy bathroom counter. There. A gaudy cell phone strangled by a stray hair. You nearly gag as you pinch the hair between your fingers and flush it. The phone goes into your pocket.

Beore you step out into the quiet hallway, you remove your shoes and carry them. Your feet are cold on the stone back stairs. The shoes go into the incinerator. For a moment, you can smell her blood burn from your soles and the familiar urges surface. But now is a shower. Now you need to go to your job.