Last Thursday

By Samantha McKeever

Last Thursday, or at least what I remember it to be, seems all too far away. Like words that hang lifeless in suffocating air, or anger that sleeps in poorly made beds.

It’s normal, really, is what they say over long phone calls in silent rooms: dialing in and out of consciousness is nothing to be concerned about. It’s just the way things are.

Things, at least, feel different. Calloused, warped, faded — all the words seem empty. I suppose that’s normal, as well… It was sunny. I remember that.

Late afternoon had long passed without my permission. The sun’s fading rays eased me out of my rest with a softness that felt foreign, but quickly fled. Standing, I felt a chill run through me and realized my feet were bare.

When the familiar cold crept up my spine, I knew it was time to leave. I wandered outside, with no particular direction in mind. There was no moon in the sky that night, just twilight stars. The wet grass hugged my feet.

Somehow, I ended up along the river east of the library. I can’t recall the route I took, but as I said before, at times I lose myself. During those moments, I can’t remember anything that I’ve said or done.

It’s almost as if another person was there before me, and I was simply walking a path already made. Lining my feet up perfectly with the prints so as not to disturb the ground. But again, this is conjecture; I have no memory of this.

So, there I was, watching the river flow lazily towards what I could only guess was the ocean, when I saw the girl. 

She had dark hair and a darker expression. From what I could tell, since I was quite far away, her face was contorted in a look of wretched horror. So much so, it made me think she was alive.

But she wasn’t. That was clear after an extended glance. I could go into detail, but you’ve seen it, haven’t you? That was when I called. When I realized she was dead. And her face, looking at me like that, prompted a realization.

An expression like that was reserved only for rotting roadkill that’s been withering in the dry heat for days, or the vultures that pick at it after. Not an innocent pedestrian on an evening stroll.

I couldn’t remember how I got there. Or how many hours had passed? Consciousness had escaped me again, like a gazelle fleeing from a lion, and this is what became of it. Last Thursday, I must have killed a girl.