The air carries that soft autumn warmth that never quite commits. A breeze slips between the houses, stirring dead leaves—and something sweeter. Crushed petals, faint but unmistakable, cling to the air. My fingers ache around the handle of the bat, numb despite the season's kindness.
"Sai—pleas—please don't do this."
Her voice scrapes across the pavement.
Nothing ever happens in this town. The biggest headline we've had was old man Greg's pumpkin—state record, front page of the local paper. People shook his hand like he'd won a war.
I've never carved a pumpkin.
I guess a skull is kinda like a pumpkin.
Aluminum shouldn't weigh this much, but my grip sags anyway, hands loose at the base like I might drop it. The bat smells faintly metallic—iron and something floral beneath it, like perfume that never quite washed off.
The streetlamp flickers overhead, painting the sidewalk in tired yellow. Each step forward pulls a shadow behind me, long and warped. Most porch lights are dark now. Curtains drawn. Families asleep.
I tilt my head back and breathe.
The air sits in that narrow space between warm and cold. Leaves gather along the curb in rust and gold, scraping softly when the wind nudges them loose. Somewhere down the street, one skitters across the pavement, dry and hollow.
"Wh—why?"
She's whimpers still crawling.
I hadn't realized she'd made it that far.
Her knees bend the wrong way, legs dragging uselessly behind her. Petals stick to her clothes—reds and whites smeared dark, crushed into the fabric. The bouquet I had bought for her lies a few feet away, stems snapped, cellophane torn. Blood pours freely from her scalp, threading through her hair before spilling onto the road, carrying the scent of flowers with it.
There's more of it than I expected.
Sweetness mixes with copper.
That reminds me, did I turn in my anatomy homework?
Well it seems like that wont matter.
A truck roars around the corner, engine screaming as headlights flood the street. The sound swells, eating the quiet whole.
I don't move.
The light washes over me, bright and absolute. My shadow disappears.
It isn't fear that roots me in place.
The thought never even forms.
So why? As death comes barreling towards me, why do I remain stagnant?
Indifference?
Perhaps my weariness has caught up to me.
Or maybe...
I don't want to wear the crown.