“Open Journal, Entry #1"

I remember the arguing, but not the argument, inside of the tiny apartment, behind some child’s closed bedroom door. I was supposed to be playing, and the woman of the house was nice enough. Sort of a sad piece; I’m torn, however, about not knowing the other child’s name, face, nor sex; though, trivial is what I feel; that detail wools me, nonetheless.

The cramped galley style kitchen is where I’d gotten a peek of a couple dozen crabs meeting their demise. How can I remember crabs aching to climb out of their scalding fate, she with a mallet, half-heartedly playing lid keeper, crustacean officer; but can’t remember that damn kid?

But I remember his arm bleeding profusely; wait, there’s another heavy voice outside of the door, the knocks carry no weight; I am either already crazy and desensitized, or oblivious to what I should have felt.

The man outside must have remembered he actually lived there; a captain, I think; with housekeys. I just know that at the age of roughly 4 or 5, it wasn’t usually safe to let out a casual, ‘what the fuck?’, but you get it how you live, the old adage tells us.

These men are wrestling, crabs are boiling; I think that damn kid was crying. And then I remembered why I was able to stand on a chair, in the kitchen, watching crabs become something that I would wait until another date, to taste.

Please make it home safe.

(an excerpt)

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