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By. Irene Meklin

Lynda Willerson, the reports said, suicided on the edge of a cliff. But my heart? What did it say? My heart said that Lyn was murdered. How do I know, you ask? Well that’s simple: because she’s sitting right next to me.

Lynda Willerson, the reports said, had a knife found in her heart. But it was the heart of the assailant that truly was broken. He even took the time to write his name in her blood on her forehead. How considerate of him. How considerate of him.

Lynda Willerson had been said to love Luke, but he did not love her back. The truth is, it was the other way around.

Lynda Willerson, the rumors stated, had tried to show her devotion to Luke by scrawling his name as she lay dying. But it was Luke who truly wanted to show his affection. I guess that was the only way he knew how.

Lynda Willerson, her mother said, had been quiet for weeks before, contemplating. But Lyn was only at the cliffs to meet the rising sun. I should know. I witnessed it all.

Lynda Willerson, her friends said, had been an amazing person. I guess that was the best compliment they had ever given.

Lynda Willerson, the police said, had been alone. But how could she have been alone when I was right next to her?

Lynda Willerson, her teacher said, had never talked to Luke. I guess telling him he should back off didn’t count as talking.

Lynda Willerson, the investigators said, had no fingerprints on her body. I guess crazed psychopaths left no fingerprints.

Lynda Willerson, her brother said, never thought things through and realized the consequences of what she was doing. I guess to a six-year-old, ice cream flavors are very important choices.

Lynda Willerson, the judges said, had no one present to witness her murder. I guess a witness has to be an adult.

Lynda Willerson, I said, had been murdered. I guess now she’s joined me.

Luke Caters, we said, had murdered us all. I guess he had a taste for pretty girls.

Luke Caters, we said, would be shown what it was like. I guess it will be his first -and last- time.

Luke Caters, we said, would be gone by midnight. I guess he’ll hope he’d never met us.

Luke Caters, we said, deserves what he’ll get. I guess we’ll deserve so too. But who can touch us here?

Luke Caters, we say, is dead. I guess we are too. I guess psychopaths don’t leave fingerprints.

Winner of the RAVSAK Hebrew Poetry Contest (2016), I live in the San Francisco Bay Area. My prose was previously published in SmokeLong Quarterly.

Thymme Jones is a musician from Chicago, Illinois.