Oxley Park

I decided that shutter doors of a bus were the sound of enslavement, they enclosed behind me, I stepped from the artificial warmth of the 774 and into the dreary downpour with a very real chill of Oxley Park. With shallow breath, burrowing into the wind and an icy exhale I powered nostagically through the howling wind and bucketing rain. I made my way in reminiscence through the driveway towards the rear of the Canberra Street unit blocks. I take a quick survey of my surroundings and kneel beside the screendoor of unit 9, normally I'd have used the key had it not been taken from me in anger even dare mentioning rehabilitation. I fumble my jacket pockets for my glasses, they're not perfectly suited for this sort of pick but I've done it before. I pop the lenses left & right into my hand and pocket them quickly, bending the sunnie's frame into a king of diamonds and a queen of spades I slip into the cylinder block and pick.

The first thing I noticed upon entering was the noose hanging from the tilted ceilingfan, another botched attempt at moment's last. It brushes my shoulder, enticing my body to twitch neck down & interrupting my stride. I am self conscious of my breathing here because I know what the air is thick of; besides the smell of rat shit, the tablespoons shining in the morning light litter the floor, blackness as hollow as the body of the woman I came for, her post-nod body lay on a tattered mattress. Her clothing her blanket, copper wire strips positioned in the corner of the lounge-room, her hands bloody. The abrasions around her neck, friction burns from the rope and a shattered television lay next to her, as if she stumbled to bed and caught the TV, dragging it down along with her.