“I perfected it,” he whispered.
Perfected what, I had no clue. But I said nothing. I couldn’t. My tongue was numb, my limbs leaden.
Instead, I just lay motionless on this cheap lounge chair in his secluded backyard, baking under the scorching sun.
I cursed my decision to make this impromptu visit, to guzzle that cloudy glass of lemonade.
“It’s taken years,” my old friend continued, lowering himself beside me.
I watched while he casually stroked my bare legs. I saw streaks of blood on his hands, the dried red specks on his fleshy cheeks.
“And you’ll be my proof.”
The Weekday One Hundred 