It’s only the thick taste of hate that lets me. As if I need to go and puke.Look what you did to her, look what you made her do.Even as I walk I feel the tug, the pluck at my back.But don’t be fooled. It’s only a grave. Don’t look round—a last glance, as at some abandoned victim. The roses like a blotch of blood.Don’t be fooled by the words you think you hear, whispered, icy.“Go on, walk. You can do that, can’t you? You’re free, you’re glad. But you haven’t got her yet, have you? Not exactly. Eight more years, if you’re lucky . . .”Keep walking, close your ears.But is that where he is in any case, in that grave behind you? Is that where the dead are, locked up in their graves— prisoners in their cells as well? Aren’t they the freest ones of all, watching us maybe, wherever we go, like perfect unseen detectives, when we think we come to stare at them?“So you can’t ever walk away, not from me, can you? And you haven’t got her yet. Eight more years . . .
What do You think about The Light Of Day: A Novel?
