Motorcade

by johannespunkt

As his head explodes, as Jacqueline reaches back to collect pieces of him to puzzle him back together, before she realizes just how impossible that would be, some of the blood finds its way to your face. You rehearse what you will say to the journalists flocking there like hyenas to the mighty dead gazelle. Some of them will make their careers tonight, and they laugh as people run around trying to make things make sense. You get home and your mother tries to wipe the blood away with a wet napkin, but it has already fused with your skin.