4:17 A.M.

BLEEDING IN TWO TENSES

#AcidNoir

You wake up in a room that isn’t yours. The wallpaper has your mother’s handwriting. The phone rings. It’s you, calling from last night, telling you to not pick up. You pick up. A voice says: “The light in the alley is eating the dogs again.” You hang up. Your hand is not your hand—it’s a map of a city you’ve never visited, but you know every dead end. Outside, a man sells clocks that all read 4:17. You buy one. It tells you your blood type. You drink a beer that tastes like a confession you haven’t made. The woman across the bar smiles with too many teeth, and each tooth is a different year of your life. You follow her. She leads you to a parking garage where the floors go down instead of up, and at the bottom, a radio plays static that forms words: “You are the suspect. You are the victim. You are the alibi.” So you shoot the radio. The bullet ricochets and hits you yesterday. Now you’re bleeding in two tenses. The only cure is to find a man who sells shadows in jars. But he’s been dead for three hours, and he’s the one driving the car. You get in anyway. The radio says, “Next stop: your childhood.” You pay the fare in tears. The driver nods. He has your face. He has always had your face. You ask, “Who killed her?” He points at the rearview. You’re looking at yourself, but you’re not the one who did it. You’re the one who watched. And watching is the same as doing. You pull the trigger. The gun is made of memory. It fires light. The light eats the dogs. The dogs are you. The alley is heaven. Heaven is a motel room with a broken TV. You check in. You never check out.