I’m not sure about calling it home. It was the place where I watered plants that were only growing roots, except for the poisonous one. A place of unfulfilled projects, of ideas too lazy to become anything else.
The only people I wanted to see talked to me in written word, printed on yellow paper.
The place looked abandoned and cheap. Like a picture of myself but fifteen percent shittier, which made for a comfortable company, a painful reminder, a relieving comparison. And a threatening possibility.
I left my keys on the table, next to the knife I bought him as a birthday present.
My eyes fixated on the knife and for a moment and I think it looked back at me.
I surrendered to the urge to grab it.
His name was impressed on the handle, and on its blade, I saw a reflection of my chest.