KG Coleman

I don't know how they do it. The guys in the movies. They stare at their crime with a coldness. A boldness. An expression of uncaring, and unremorse. I can't do it. I try. I really do try but I cannot force my face to mask the feelings I have.

And my face is hurting. Honestly hurting. Some of it may be the sting of the winter cold, the earth punishing me for what I've done. I feel the blood rushing to my head. My mind is racing. I wonder if the two are correlated. Maybe my brain needs the extra blood. Maybe my body is as nervous about his as I am.

The body doesn't look like what it does in the movies either. In a movie, the body is pristine, angelic, almost mystical. They cut to a close up of the wide eyes. Lifeless, and expressionless, yet overflowing with the last sense of hope felt just before the gunshot.

Angie looks nothing like that. Angie. Angie. Your not supposed to think of their name. The guys in the movies, they know not to mention the name. You say the name, then the body becomes a person. When the body's a person is when the problems occur. The blood on your hands turns to guilt. The guilt in your heart turns to grief. The grief in your heart turns to rage. The rage turns against you. It's a cycle. A well known cycle. Angie. Her name is Angie. There's no escaping now.

I don't really know Angie. I mean, I know what she looks like. I've stared at her now for ten minutes. Long flowing brown hair, hazel eyes. She has the eyes of a poet. My mom once told me about those. A poet's eyes are always clear. Always bright. A poet's eyes are open to see everything. I don't know if Angie was a poet. Maybe she was a doctor, a teacher, a bus driver. Who knows who she was. But now it doesn't matter. Because whatever she was, she was. She isn't anything anymore. She won't be anything again.

I hear sirens now. They may be for me. Probably for me. For Angie too. It's funny in a way. I didn't know Angie, she didn't know me. We've never shared a moment before, but in a brief second, we've shared the most important of both of our existences.

I won't run. The sirens are closer now. A light drizzle falls. I take off my coat and cover Angie.

Stay dry, I tell her, you don't want to catch a cold.