by Teresa Stenson
We’re in a triangle formation, me and my two friends. Behind me they’re quiet. No words since turning onto the street, seeing the ambulance whir away. Then I’m on our driveway, telling them I’ll see them tomorrow at school. They pass on.
I move, hurried steps to the house, to light spilling out illuminating the white doorstep. See the stamped blood, leading me in, showing me which way to go; brown on our blue carpet. Into the dining room, past my sister sat on the floor, waiting for me, head in her hands. My eyes flick to the kitchen – assaulted with red spray on white walls, pools on the tiled floor.
Something passes between us. I ask what has happened, she tells me, the room shifts to a diagonal.
Teresa Stenson has had fiction published in several anthologies and journals, including The Orphan Leaf Review and Brand Literary Magazine.