The arrowhead pauses, nudges against my ribs like the finger of a child, becomes aggressive, won’t stop. Pushes harder. Penetrates flesh, and, emboldened, pushes on. It penetrates bone and cartilage, punches through, drives inward. The arrowhead navigates organs, tissue, muscle. Sluices to the opposite rib cage before it stops again, nudges, breaks through. Pulls the shaft behind like a straw through soup, filling up.
I realize this is how I will die.
My assassin is so evil, I think. So very beautiful, her hair spilling over her face, but so evil.
The sky so blue as it rises.
The grass so soft, colliding.
I wonder if the old man across the way will miss me coming by.
Someone grabs the protruding arrowhead and pulls. The straw follows through my chest, lungs, ribs. Feathers tickle my insides, exiting, tearing vital things, slicing. The damage is done.
It seems a good idea to press my palm against my side, to stop the flow. Is there a flow? I don’t know, but it seems a good idea. Something wet drips down my wrist, warm and such a good idea.
I love Ms. Delia. I do. I never told her.
I love my daughter.
I told her many times.
I am full of love, but it’s leaking.
I will rest my face on the grass, maybe.
Lie under the breeze.