He was walking, just walking. We only made eye contact for a few seconds. The moment passed and he was behind me. My feet pedaling and my breath sharp, scared. Because when I looked at his eyes I saw someone's ghost.
A spirit lived inside him, and their one freedom was being able to look out of the black in his eyes and tell strangers on the road, "this man is the reason I'm dead"
The killer's hair was grey, his body sagged and tired. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, and his brow was slightly furrowed. Living for two people had beed hard on his bones, it made them creak when he got up from the sofa.
He periodically found himself forgetting, laughing even. But during those moments when he actually felt something close to happiness the swimmer inside of him would flail, reminding him that it wasn't good enough. It wasn't fair.
The swimmer wanted to tell me how it happened, maybe that it wasn't even the ocean's fault. He didn't mean to, or he was doing his duty. Maybe it was war. He had to look the swimmer in the eye before putting a bullet in his head. It could've been love, or hate, or a broken heart. It may be that he didn't know why she was calling. She called three times but he didn't know. He was busy, and she always called. How was he supposed to know there was a rope hanging from the ceiling, a chair ready to be kicked. It could've been rain on the highway. One drink too many.
It could've been a hooker from the city in a dirty motel room with a shower curtain around her throat.
It didn't matter. The swimmer knew they were dead, and the ocean knew he was the killer.
This is sad shit.
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