I walk across grass fields, my hands deep in my pockets, boots filling with water. No moon tonight, just stars peeking from behind the pollution of a dismal town. This bare space of green darkens in the glare of the sprawl nearby; a shy lover shrinking away from foul breath. I look around and realise I am invisible, but I can see everything.
The woods loom up ahead, uncertain, so I sit on a nearby dead tree and don’t disturb further. Sticks snap and trunks creak, in the background the static hum of a pointless conveyor belt – cars and drunks. I’m shivering. I wrap my scarf tighter to my neck and carry on.
I climb the hill and look over my shoulder as the town glows fetid below. I never really felt a connection to it and now I never shall. I’ll forever be Other. I’ll always be Something Else. The footpath tiptoes out between tall concrete walls. I find a dark gap, and wait.
The Man approaches, humming a song to himself. He’s wearing headphones, the white cord glowing. As he approaches the gap I emerge calmly from the shadows, jamming the knife under his ribs, pushing him against the wall. We scratch our boots across loose gravel. He threatens to cry out, but doesn’t.
I look into his eyes as they throb and pulse, pulling the hilt up to cut deeper. My wrist is warm. He will never hurt you anymore. Like a dying candle, his eyes fade.
jimmi campkin 