The false assassin

by Richard Mcallister

Lingering, it permeates the room of dead and dying. Hospital smell.

Invisible to the sense, only an echo treads softly on the path to Hades’ room. Dripping needle.

Turn back it says, save yourself, save your tears for someone else. Yellow Bandage.

Melancholic arrows make their way to you, pierce your side and lift you up. Oozing wound.

But they are false, false as the assassin who loosed them on your weeping frame. Masked assistant.

He’s dead, they whisper, we lied, they laugh, we are the false assassin. Painkillers.

They call us hope.