Things I Know to Be True: by Kate Humbles

1.

The human head remains conscious for up to ten seconds after decapitation. I read this in a medical journal I found in a dentist’s waiting room when I was eleven. I couldn’t stop picturing it—the severed head blinking, eyes scanning the floor for its missing body. I imagined it was my own head, watching the soles of the nurse’s white sneakers as she walked away, the antiseptic taste still heavy on my tongue. The article didn’t mention what happens in the ninth second—whether the eyes soften, surrender, or still search for a miracle.

2.

The neighbor’s porch light has been flickering for three days. At first, I thought it was faulty wiring. Now, I think it’s a signal. It blinks in a pattern too deliberate to be random, but not deliberate enough to be a code. My sister says it’s probably just a loose bulb, but last night, I swear I saw the light stutter in perfect time with my heartbeat. Once for the inhale, twice for the exhale.

3.

Blood doesn’t always look red. On the pavement beneath the streetlamp, it looks black, like ink spilled from a pen with a broken nib. When it pools on skin, it darkens into a color so rich and heavy, it seems unnatural, like melted garnets. On the sleeve of his hoodie, it dried into a rust-colored map, crusted into unfamiliar continents. I traced the edges with my finger. My hand shook, but not from the cold.

4.

The moon was closer last night. I watched it through the slit in the blinds, and it felt heavy in the sky—too heavy, like it might drop. Its light dripped into the room in slow, sticky ribbons. It painted his face pale and made him look almost angelic. Almost. His mouth was slack, just slightly open, as if he might wake up at any moment.

5.

I once watched a wasp crawl into a spider’s web and never try to leave. It didn’t fight. It simply folded its wings and let the silk cradle it. I stared for a long time, waiting for the inevitable struggle. But it only shuddered once—small and resigned—then stilled. I was ten. My mother told me it was probably already dying. I’m not sure I believe that.

6.

The hole in the backyard is still there. It was supposed to be for a tree. That’s what he said. A sapling, he promised, once the weather turned. But it’s been four months, and the dirt still slouches in a pile beside it. Some nights, I stand at the edge and stare down into it, my toes on the rim. The earth smells damp and sweet. I could fill it in, but I never do.

7.

I keep finding blonde hair in the bathroom drain. My hair is dark. His is, too. I tell myself it must be the previous tenant’s—a lingering ghost of someone else’s shower. But the strands are fresh, gleaming gold, not brittle and old. I collect them in a tissue and flush them away. By morning, more appear.

8.

The car keys were in the freezer this morning. I don’t remember putting them there. My hands were cold when I fished them out. The key fob was covered in frost, its battery drained. I stared at my reflection in the silver handle. My lips were blue.

9.

The suitcase is still in the trunk. I packed it two days ago. His shirts, his socks, his watch. I rolled them neatly, tucking them into the lining. I added the shoes he always left by the door. I told myself it was for the donation bin. The suitcase is still in the trunk. I haven’t opened it since.

10.

No one has come looking. Not his friends, not his family. No missed calls, no messages—almost as if they knew before I did.

11.

The human head remains conscious for up to ten seconds after decapitation. I have read this fact so many times now, it no longer feels macabre. It feels familiar. I wonder if, in the ninth second, the eyes soften after all. I wonder if they close willingly. I wonder if they forgive.

Kate Humbles

Image by MH Rhee from Pixabay – A glowing lantern mounted on a brick wall.