#146b

It is the night of my 32nd birthday and my world and future lay in ruins. John, the man I have waited for and desired for what seems like an eternity, is slumped down dead on the living room floor with the best part of his skull put through. His Elvis Costello type glasses are crushed beneath his face and his right eye is bulged out the socket and staring into nowhere. I feel sick and weak and scared and I don't know what to do. But it was not me. I didn't kill him. It was an accident. It was the Flamingo plant.