They Killed Us On A Sunday

At the intersection of Fifth and Down, sits a cat. Her calico fur, once shiny and clean, now frayed and coarse. Her eyes, previously playful and sweet, are now wary of my approach. She perches as a statue, a guardian of her charred companion forever imprinted on the crumbling stone wall behind her.

We do not speak to the charred, as the burned paintings never talk back.

Nevertheless, she guards that art every day. Unwavering. Waiting for her loved one to peel themselves off that wall and walk among us again.

At the intersection, I could go right and head home-but turning left would take me where my heart is calling today. My exhausted eyes collide with the cat’s keen gaze. Her tail flicks and her ears twitch as she protects what I could not. Shrugging my satchel higher onto my thin shoulders, I nod to the gargoyle and allow my feet to carry me left towards the city center.

Birds do not sing here. Their hymns no longer hold a tune in this wreckage. My worn boots, caked in red mud, are the only echoing sound in this abandoned place. Grey concrete buildings caved into themselves as if a soufflé never gained its volume are now overgrown with creeping vines and scurrying reptiles. But still no birds come to sing and eat. I continue straight on the road I used to traverse on my days of leisure. Trickling laughter and the hustling thrill of the Sunday market taunt my ears as the charred remain vigilant and scornful. My satchel grows heavy with the weight of my forage, but I continue on and turn right down my favorite street.

Grid road systems of cities are predictable and boring in name. Fourth Avenue South or 39th Street-something or another, always snatched the joy out of discovery for me in the old days. But this one street near the city center was different.

Special.

Overlook Place.

And it did overlook the world.

A steep incline was necessary to access the highest point in the city. The grooves of chipped sidewalk and abandoned cars make my feet tread in the heart of the road. Not that it matters anymore. No cars bustle to and from their destinations. The once pristine homes lining the road are no longer plump with the sound of children laughing. My only companions are the whistling winds and the constant cry within my own soul.

My breathing comes in shorter bursts, but my legs are strong now so the journey is no hardship.

I used to be soft, pinchable.

My curves enviable.

My face, lovely.

Now, I am alone and I am no longer admired by anyone or anything beyond the setting and rising sun of bleak days.

They said we’d be safe.

That our lands could never be breached.

And they didn’t lie about that, we were never invaded. Not from the outside.

The sun is threatening to set behind my destination as I crest the hill and behold my once perfect city. The skyscrapers glistening and preforming the task they were named for as soft clouds float along their windows. I can hear the beep of vans and cars. The thrum of speech vibrating under my feet. The causal melding of voices, once soothing, turned to screams.

I turn to face the place my heart has hunted. A two-story yellow home with white shutters and a cherry wood door. The porch carelessly wraps around the home in a protective hug. I breach the steps and the rotting wood groans under my weight.

I face the first of my charred. A rocking chair overturned and decaying in front of the black art that paints my home. Her hair, once raven black, had been grey and braided that day. Now, not a single strand exists besides the ones she gave me on my own head. I push the door ajar and it cries on rusty hinges. Weeps at my coming of home. But I cannot stay beyond this night. And she will have to mourn again tomorrow.

The foyer holds no promise of laughter or fits, as I take the stairs one at a time. The familiar creak on the fourth step at the edge of the carpet runner alerts my companions that I’ve come to pay my homage.

The television plays in our bedroom, the flicking of channels between the multitude of new casters and talk shows. All battling amongst themselves about who was right and who was evil. Pointing their bloodied fingers at the saccharine faces of those that knew the blade was double sided.

The clamor of chaos halts as I place my sun weathered hand on the wood, resting my forehead on my marital entrance and debate turning around.

A cat’s judgmental eyes have me easing the door open. The hinges don’t cry, as they didn’t when I shared this room so many years ago.

I can see him.

His warm brown eyes, my comfort in life. His smile, my very center. I found peace in his arms and safety within our friendship. He sits on the bed. The quilt my grandmother gave to us on our wedding day drapes lazily under his burly form. So at odds with his gentle nature. He doesn’t hear me as those well-greased hinges perform the task I oiled them for.

His feet are bare and crossed at the ankles as he holds a bundle of blankets near his naked chest.

Those stunning eyes are closed, his head is tilted back onto our headboard that I picked out and he hates but refuses to admit. But even as he rests his eyes, that bottle still tilts milk at the angle she needs. Even in slumber, he thinks of others.

I sit at the foot of our bed. The depression of my body on the mattress no longer waking him as it once did. My presence doesn’t cause the cooing fits of that tiny body wrapped in those soft pink blankets.

His perfect brown eyes do not open as rain begins to patter against the broken window.

The birds do not sing.

And I do not move from my post as I place my hand on the charred mark where his ankles used to cross.