Series: Murderers Row

Month/Year: January 2016

Reference: Murderers Row, Inc.
Plate: #15

Position:#2

Title: Staging a House

I.
You have to understand me. For all that happens on this block, the houses are too
damn pretty. The inside occasions have nothing to do with shelter. What happens in
a home is sanctity to the building and the family within. Not to forget that privacy is
the bedrock of mental security. What I cannot seem to flesh out for you in these cold
days is what happens behind closed doors finding itself in the streets for paid
entertainment sake. I might be able to deal with the prostitutes, but I refuse to
understand the others. I never wanted to hear any of them. I never thought it was
right, but what can I do? A daily dose of keeping my mouth shut, for I know they
keep my secrets as well. I despise their deviancy and hate of human life. You just
cannot keep that many hash marks quiet from bedroom conversation. I do not
know what they want and for the sake of those gone I bide my time quietly. I try not
to ruminate so much over self-defense against verbal attacks. The bottom line is
that I am exhausted from trying to understand their motivations. No more excuses
for them or me; therefore, I write.
At this point, I am thinking the first world histories were a bitch. Compiling and
verifying must have driven many a military writer to suicide. In their place, I would
hold my wings and scream over every piece of information. How do you pay out

after truth out? I hear so many speak out of conceit and manipulation. They cling to
their words hoping their sight verifies what they saw it as true. By earth and moon, I
am compelled to tell this is my emotion - a direct result of what happened in this
neighborhood. If you swear by credibility, I will tell you to consider it all with two
aspirin and read the next span of papers another day. It happened and I stand by
these ears. I heard the murderers lived about these streets and within a week, they
all banded together - no doubt, for survival, camaraderie, and manipulation.
Somewhere in there, they took to aiding me at times, but never with a direct
admission. I will never be able to trust; a scorpion being a scorpion never surmounts
their nature.
I write for myself to assuage the pain and a continued hope for silence so I may
rest.
II.
What hurt was seeing a random man digging up the rose bushes. I thought Clara
loved those bushes. I swore she was devoted to them. It does not matter now; Clara
is dead. Even if not for her adorations in the front yard, I hold roses in high esteem.
They bring me peace twofold, first for their medicinal properties and then for their
beauty. Five petals and deep pink blossoms flush over the bush even in cold
weather. Shovel in hand, he tapped the roots and pulled from the top. In the midst
of one gasp, my prayer answered aloud; he did not overcome them after all. In
diminishing anger, I turned my head to watch the road. All I could do is react; I
declared the man a fool trying to possess the yard standing underdressed in the
afternoon freeze. Could it be the joke that pursues household to household about
burying wives deep in garden foliage? Under live bushes husbands and sons pry up

roots shovel in hand, black vinyl body bag to the right. I remember sometimes and
forget others, but tonight I just might sleep.
N. A. Jones 2016 All Rights Reserved