Arizona is the place for a funeral, if there ever could be such a place
because believe me when I say, Life
can’t take root in dry soil. No Botanist or Investigator
dares to try and stop her. She is contacted by the weak, the helpless, the hopeless,
each in dying need of her services. I think of her often today, while at my husband’s
funeral. She was careful; killing him slower than the fading pale
green bruises on my God- given body. If I was religious, any God of mine would be in
Hell right along with the criminals and devils she sends there. Hotter there than the
injected poison that inflames their bodies. Hotter than Arizona. Is it
Justice for the lives these men have already stolen? Depends on whom you ask.
Killers like Penelope are hard to find unless they want to be found. She never
lets people in too close, only the wicked
moths, like my abusive drunk husband, deserving of her fiery temper. She collects
newspaper clippings like coin collectors treasure Civil War nickels.
Obituaries like trophies line her walls. It was my life or his. I choose mine.
Proudly, I’d do it again. My body wasn’t his property to use or abuse as he wished.
Queen of murder, Penelope alone carries the weight of death and demons
rotting inside her. She straddles a line between serial killer and
superhero. Or are they just different sides of the same coin? I could not be more
thankful that she slayed the dragon that I couldn’t save my kids from. It’s not easily
understood, I know. Only those who survived a certain kind of darkness will.
Vigilantes like Penelope are clever, venomous, calculating, beautiful,
worst of all, deadly. A cold- blooded killer living in the dry grass,
xeric climate. A climate like fucking Arizona.
You won’t find life taking root, no tears to water its growth. It’s dead space, ground
zero for the ghosts and hellish creatures like Penelope and the sinners she kills.