She shot. A bullet between the eyes they said. It was quick they said. Even the surprised stare, linking the broken window on the 12th floor of her apartment. It was a neat hole, a perforated anomaly amidst chaos, like the clean holes punched into lined notebook paper. They said it was quick, dead before she even splattered like oozing red oatmeal on the concrete; she was a Jackson Pollock hugging the bend of the city road, hugging the white lane markers and their "Left turn only" proudly proclaimed, now, in crimson.
White light spewing forth in unmanageable, distorted eye excess!
Lights and the whining the bulb charged for another take, to speak another volume of words meaning and...
In the blink of an eye, florescent flourishes in the cowering, receding pupils!
Another angle, to be framed neatly colored between white borders. Framed, for all to remember. Another whine, another finger stiff to press the shutter once again. Show us another...
Faster than a bullet, whizzing past the burning retinas, burned smoking and wretched into fleshy gray matter!
Slowly, carefully, the face covered in a mass of plastic and metal zipper. Entombed into another frame, another house; still unfit for her to live in.
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