warning: violence
You know that he will be here soon, and you pace the living room while peeling out of your suit jacket. You drape the sleeves over the back of a chair and turn on the television, which is perpetually tuned to the news. It's him, it's him.. he will be here soon, and then you can finish this. No, wait, you're overreacting. You remember that you will make the phone call and wait on the text to confirm that it is him before you do what you want to do.
What do you want to do? There are flickers of incoherent thought and memory that spasms into the present of this. You remember her buried up to her neck, nicked up with knife cuts, wormholed with fresh decay. You remember tears and vomiting and trying to dig her out of the dirt because you couldn't just leave her there. You wanted to hold her, even if she was dead, you wanted to tell her that it was okay, and you wanted to bury her -- there's a knock on the door and that thought fractures.
Time lapses, and there is no sorrow now. Only a numb sense of accomplishment as you wash the blood from your hands. It was him, the text message said it was him. You glance briefly to your left, where a body is crumpled on the kitchen tile and bleeding out. Then you turn back to the sink and continue to rinse the raw state of your knuckles, signs of violence. The deep gash in your arm doesn't worry you, but you let the water run over it anyway. This will be a scar to crown all of the others, this is a victory that has nothing to do with that file. A cell phone rings and the memory shatters when you reach to answer.