I watched a man bleed out and die in my kitchen. I mean, yes, I shot him. I Killed him, I suppose. Eventually, he died. It wasn’t quick like in the movies. He flopped around for a long time. Tried to crawl away. I watched. Horrified and at the same time wishing I had a bowl of popcorn. I watched as his blood ran out of him and seeped into the raw wood floor.
My kitchen floor. It’s a conversation piece. People say it’s morbid, macabre and gruesome even. I say, isn’t all art really, and chuckle along with them.