The first victim I must apologize to,
before death, is Ginger. When I was five
I pulled a knife from my belt and waved the blade
next to her blue eyes. "I'm going to kill
you," I said. Her face, so innocent the
smile collapsed into despair, was pretty
and I was in love with Ginger. Her lips,
which I had kissed twice, parted to speak, but
she cried, wailing and running up the hill
to her house. Her blonde hair, in ringlets I
swear, bounced. And I stood confused. Why had she
left? I felt dirty. The boy who waved his
knife in my eyes had not mentioned hurting
her inside. I hadn't cried, even when
he cut a line of blood on my arm. Her
face haunted me for months. I was sent to
the priest, a troubled boy so young, and her
parents forbade me to see her. I was
low class.
I think you loved me too. Ten years
later, you still stared at me with hurt as
you stood on your porch. Neighbors, we hardly
talked after my violence. We might
have married, you were so beautiful. We
might have raised blonde children: A fireplace, pots
of copper in the kitchen. Now I leave
cities, a list of rented apartments, and
girlfriends. I apologize. I am
punished every day for my basic hate,
which was not for you. I had kissed you, thought
you were the child I could show hate to. Five,
we lost belief in toys on that hill. You
grew fat and dour, and I do not love.
David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees and is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than 220. He lives in Nashville, TN.