Purple Roaches in the Basement

Purple Roaches in the Basement

Right now there is a roach in my bathroom. Right in the middle of the floor. It is dead. It has been there for the last six weeks. Over the last six weeks, it has been the only living thing that has come into my life. But not the only dead thing. Not the only dead thing by far.

I killed the roach that now lies on my bathroom floor. I squished it with my bare foot. I was sitting on the toilet and it ran from the corner. A black streak over the white tiles. Not a care in the world. Until my foot came along and ruined everything. I stared at the smear on the floor for a long time. I don't know why I killed it. A primal act of savagery. Unconfined, uncontrolled.

The little blond girl came before the roach. Sweet silky hair and a purple sundress. Standing by the abandoned swing set. So easy to pluck an devour.

I kept expecting the roach to move. The little girl moved no matter how many times I squashed her tiny frame against the various parts of my anatomy. Roaches are crunchy. Little girls are supple and soft.

I used to read about murderers. Not the old man with a magnifying glass, wrinkled and hunched over a monarch he is pinning to a styrofoam plate. Good looking. Young guys. Sweater vests and carnage. Men who could sweet talk a woman to his web and slash the skin from her smiling face.

The little girls didn't start with sex. They started with the same savagery the roach started with. They scream so sweetly. Rebecca is the purple pixie buried now in the dirt floor of my basement. Forever in silt and sand.

That's all she said as I stabbed her. Stuck on repeat. Stuck on my blade, on my lap.

"My name is Rebecca. My name is Rebecca. My name..."

She escaped into her self. Screamed her own name while I sighed against her neck. Her last words were not words at all. Small whimpers and loose tears. I cried with her. At least I tried to cry. It's hard to feel anything other than cotton fabric. Plastic buttons. Satin bed spreads. Release. Repeat. 

I go to check on the roach. Still there, though a stream of ants has followed it from the corner. Hollowed out by tiny workers. Only the shell is left. Just like Rebecca.

My empty little Rebecca. The hollow bathroom and the filled basement floor. Full ants. Spent body. Uncontrolled. Unconfined. Time to rest.