I put my key in the lock. It clicks along the familiar path and opens the door. The sun is setting behind me. I walk through the front door of my house.
Albert sits in a corner, alone. He rocks methodically back and forth. He chants to himself.
“Albert did bad wrong. Albert did bad wrong. Albert did bad wrong.”
The smell affronts my nostrils. I know immediately what it is. Excrement and urine, dried and days old, but also something underneath these smells. The smell of death.
Rachel’s body lies prone on the living room carpet. The ornate crystal ashtray lies beside her. A bit of her scalp, the hairs still attached, is stuck in a crevice of the crystal. The gash in her head is unthinkably deep and profane, like a flower trying to bloom. But bloom it shall not. The blood, coagulated in the carpet beneath her head, has dried into a blackened crust. Lethargic autumn flies buzz around her open eyes.
I can think of nothing else to do. I call Monty. He tells me to remain calm. But I am calm, I tell him. He tells me to hang up the phone and call an ambulance and then the police, and then to call him back. I do. When I call Monty back, he tells me he knows a man in the prosecutor’s office. He will help me. I thank him and hang up.
I look over at Albert. He continues to rock and chant. And I know, the play has begun. I look over to Rachel. Her body has already started to bloat. And yes, it is true. The play has begun.