I Am the Messenger

Then Audrey.

I pick it up and hold it in my hand.

I wish I could hold up that knife and tear open the world. I'd slice it open and climb through to the next one.

In bed, I cling to that thought.

There are three cards in my drawer and one in my hand.

As sleep stands above me, I gently press my finger to the edge of the Ace of Hearts. The card is cool and sharp.

I hear a clock ticking.

Everything watches impatiently.

Name: David Sanchez.

Also known as: Ritchie.

Age: Twenty.

Occupation: None.

Achievements: None.

Ambitions: None.

Likelihood of ever attaining answers to the previous three questions: None.

The next time I go to Ritchie's house on Bridge Street, I find the place completely dark. I almost leave, until the light jumpstarts on in the kitchen. It flicks and dies several times before forcing itself alive.

A silhouette arrives and sits at the kitchen table. It's Ritchie for sure. I can tell by the shape of the hair and the way he moves and sits down.

When I move closer I discover he's listening to the radio. It's mostly talkback, with a few songs thrown in. Faintly, I hear it.

I hide myself as close as I can without being caught out and listen.

The voices from the radio blur and reach out. Words like arms that land and rest heavily on Ritchie's shoulders.

I imagine the whole scene of the kitchen.

A toaster with crumbs around it.

Half-dirty oven.

White but fading Laminex.

The red, plastic-covered chairs with holes picked in them.

Cheap lino floor.

And Ritchie.

I try to imagine his face as he sits there, listening. I remember Christmas Eve and Ritchie's words. I don't feel like going home tonight. I see the eyes that dragged themselves toward me, and I see now that anything would be better than sitting alone in his kitchen.

With Ritchie, it's always hard to imagine a pained look on his face because of his relaxed manner. I saw a glimpse that Christmas Eve, though, and I revisit it again now.

I also imagine his hands.