What Happened by Cami Park
I don’t want to tell you what happened, or why.
I don’t want to give you background or details, or motivation, or any
of the other stuff that people tell stories with. I just want to tell you.
No, I want you to feel it. Feel the table, cold against your back in that
ridiculous costume, beneath the iron-shaded fluorescent. Feel it, the light
bereft of warmth piercing your eyeballs even as you turn away, closing your
eyes as tightly as you can. Feel the rough paper against your skin, rustling
with your movements, mocking hope.
There are people, faceless people, as warm and welcoming as the light. You
want to get away. Your body screams to be away, but your mind collides against
the logistics and you freeze. You are cold. Everything is cold, the table,
the hands, the light, your eyes, and
suddenly, like a bird smashing against a windowpane, it’s over.
You are still cold, but you have all of time to warm yourself in the flimsy
drapery of grief.
Cami Park
Cami Park does most of her writing at a desk, some of it in bed, but none
of it, ever, at the kitchen table. The results can be seen in past, current,
and/or future publications of Smokelong Quarterly, Forklift,
Ohio, Prairiedog
13, and No Tell Motel. She can
be reached at
.
