The Word

It's on the front of my door when I return home from work on a piece of loose-leaf notebook paper. It's on a text message I receive from a number I've never seen before as I walk into the kitchen. It's on the refrigerator, spelled out by colorful, magnetic letters I bought for my kid. It's on my computer as I sit down to check my emails, and guess what, it's there too.

Six letters. Two syllables.

It's in the voice on the other end of the phone line as it says "Just follow the signs, kid. We don't need to hurt you."

It's on the airbag warning label in my car where the words "death or serious Injury" should be. It's on the billboard I pass as I head towards my target destination. It's on the briefcase hidden behind the dumpster at Big Mike's. It's on the gun inside the briefcase. It's on the slip of paper also inside the briefcase. It's on the chalkboard behind the bar inside Big Mike's where the menu usually is. It's on my mind as I pull the trigger.

It's in the voice of the judge as he sentences me to 25 to life.

It's on the faces of the guards as they shove me into my cell. It's on the walls of my cell etched by bloody, stumpy fingernails. It's on every page of every book I try to distract myself with. It's on the ceiling as I lay in bed, not sleeping and not forgetting. It's everywhere and I can't escape it.

It's in the voice of the phone company guy as he tells me I never got a call that day.

I don't want to believe it. I can't believe it.

I'm not insane.