I unscrewed the plastic top of the cheap supermarket beer and dusted off my suit. Tears made of razors screamed down my face as the sun bled itself black and blue. I lit a match and watched it fade out, crackling to nothing. My wife died in the war and left me with the ghosts of infants, smashed to pieces by the machine of violence, of time and of the womb. I still wear her watch. They told me it stopped with her heart. A simple watch, light as a feather. I never bothered to get it cleaned. They said her blood was all over it but a few of them had cleaned it with a little water from their jerry cans.
I lit the stove and boiled a saucepan of water. Plonked the watch in. Yelping and grunting comes from outside the door. The neighborhood bitch is getting raped again. They don’t snip the males anymore. There is no money for things like that. I can hear them knocking over empty bottles. Glass this time. In the pan the watch looked ridiculous, like an elephant swimming. I leave it there though. I want to make sure it works again. I need to get rid of her death juice. The red honey that ended her. A blazing bullet cutting through spicy, shimmering hot air then slamming into her soft head and spinning her into eternal night.
No more anything.
I shuffle around in my slippers killing ants, slugs. I chuck sugar and salt down on the floor. I’m not sure which one kills them so I try both. Then I sprinkle them with beer and watch them struggle in the froth. The sight makes me want to jump up and down in the street and scream in a made up language, throw a stone at the moon and knock it clean out of the sky, sending it hurtling to Earth.
That might be best.