I was at my father’s house listening to some old high school jazz band records. A couple of old friends were there visiting, along with my girlfriend, who was amused by it all. Sometimes when we’d play an album, pictures would appear in the air — ghostly, translucent — of events from our school days. It was fun to listen to the old music, and to see the old friends.
After my friends left, I helped my father get to bed, then went upstairs myself (although my father’s house is single story). During the night I heard a noise, and thought maybe I’d left the stereo on.
I went downstairs — it was now my house — and surprised someone in the living room. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I had the impression that they were homeless, and looking for food. I spoke, and asked if I could help them somehow.
He whirled around — enormous frame, shaggy black hair past his shoulders, filthy face around crazed blue eyes — and stared at me for a moment, then lunged.
He slashed and stabbed me with a black knife made from a chunk of a shattered LP, then crawled out of the open window and fled.
I staggered around the room for a bit, and knew I was going to lose consciousness and die before I could get upstairs to my phone. I wanted to leave a message behind — some last words — but I only had my blood for ink. I looked for a place on the wall to write, but there was too much art to leave a clear space. Instead I wrote across the glass of one of my framed prints: “LOVE EVERYONE”.
I collapsed to the floor, and coughed blood while laughing, thinking, “I guess that print will be worth a little more money now.” Then I couldn’t see anymore.
And my last thought was, “Shit, did I spell that right?”