UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION
I want to show Meredith the picture of the man who killed me, but she refuses to see it.
It doesnít matter, she says.
Iíve heard doesnít matter since we were freshmen in college. I must be pouting
Darren, youíre not dead, she says. The prick hasnít killed anyone. When you
She removes a pound of hamburger from the freezer. She fancies herself a chef,
But I want her to see my photograph of Isaac Starnes. I visited him yesterday,
I canít believe you still see him, she says.
She punches the microwave buttons to warm up the beef. The television drones.
If someone killed you, I say, Iíd want to know who it was.
Meredith turns around and smirks. What good would it do you?
Moments left to defrost, the red brain of beef spins inside its see-through box.
The microwave dings. Unable to speak, I watch her dump the beef into a tray.
This was my death, and I wanted to share it with her like I had my life. I wanted to
I snatch the photo from my satchel and shove it toward her. Isaac grimaces at my
Thatís him, I say. Cute guy, huh? Worse ways to go.
Meredith mashes the beef with her fingers.
I suppose, she says. Nice smile. I can see the attraction.
I wait for her to say more, to comment on the man who killed me: what does he do
Youíll have to hold it closer to me, she says. My hands are dirty.
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