Scrawlers

I was fifteen holding a gun for the first time. He said “Just follow my lead,” so I did. We both had guns, and we didn’t scare anyone that night, we killed people. I’m wanted for the deaths of three people. It’s been twenty-two years, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I think about it everyday. Praying to God to forgive my sins. I was young, and the only thing that you chose was the gang life. I’m being hunted down by the U.S government, and the people that want me dead.

The lazy afternoon haze drifts through the open window. My feline friend lies stretched across the window sill. As seen through the glass, children of every race pepper the lawn, engaging in some gay childhood pastime or other.

Birds chirp in atonal spirals, expressing the angst of bread-getting. Pizza stains the corner of Grandmother's mouth, as she splays across the couch, searching for words.

Across the desk, a tilted photograph of my sister prancing, the Taj Mahal to her back, behind her a man paces between two large shrubs.

Must life be so lovely?