The Crime Scene

Pen, paper and a hasty message, "Be back by 8," addressed to no one, signed by no one, left on a plastic countertop near the open, empty refrigerator. A half-moon stain on the corner of the note marking where a sweaty glass used to rest- the shattered crystal on the floor just below the sink. Two bullet shells, .45 caliber to the trained eye and still warm to the touch, sitting innocently by the flimsy back door that was ripped off its hinges and now rests in pieces against the plywood counter. Walk to the living room and there are clothes strewn on every conceivable inch of cheap carpet, solid pastels, bold geometrical patterns and animal prints, green, purple, red -a lot of red- and one orange hat dangling off the leg of the remains of an upturned table. Hanging by a hairsbreadth on the old television with it's broken screen and smoke curling obscenely to the heavens like charred incense is a cheap plastic coat hanger, snapped in two so one piece clings by a mere sliver. The faintest hint of crimson marrs one jagged end but even as you watch, it turns a crusty rusted brown.