It's 3:23 am and I hear it, four distinct gun shots, thoughtful, spaced evenly with two seconds between each crack. I picture what lies on the other side of that short barrel.
I picture a man running, because I hear no tires screech. There is no one there, to help the fallen one.
There are no sirens, no screams. The night is silent.
And so I lie there, for hours readjusting the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, and rustling my legs free from the sheets. It's cold, but I don't want to get up to turn off the fan, I don't want to leave the bed or approach the windows.
The air is still outside, and I wonder if the blood is on the sidewalk, or the street, or perhaps on someone's front lawn; is anyone there, is anyone watching, is anyone crying now.
